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MAP.TE ANTOFNKTTE 


Frontispiece, 



MARIE ANTOINETTE 

AND HER SON 

AN HISTORICAL NOVEL. 


BY 


L. AltiHLBACH, 


AUTHOR OP “JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT, “FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS PAMILl," 
“LOUISA OP PRUSSIA AND HER TIMES,” “ HENRY VIII. AND HIS COURT,” 


ETC.. ETC. 




A- 


4 A--' 

■VI w 

-O 

TRANSLATED FEOIX THE, GERMAN, BY 

REV. Wv lV" gage. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


fUu^’tvati0u^^ 


NEW YORK: 

B. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

443 & 445 BROADWAY. 

18 61 . 


n2> 

rN 


Entered, accordiDg to Act of Congress, m the year 1^67, by 
D. APPLETON & O X, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Sn',them District of New Tork. 

’ll- > ' ^ 4 4 

f I * •■«?«. , i, 'I' • J ,, • 


OOITTEETS 


BOOK I. 

Chap. I.— A Happy Qneen, 

II.— Madame Adelaide, 
III.— Trianon, 
rv.— The Queen’s Necklace, 
V. — Enemies and Friends, 
VI.— The Trial, 


Page 
1 
8 
16 
. 27 
33 
. 40 


BOOK lY. 

Chap. XIX.— June 20 and August 10, 1792, 
XX.— To the 21st of January, 

XXI. — Toulan, 

XXII. — The Plan of the Escape, 
XXin.— The Separation, . 


Page 
158 
. 173 
184 
. 191 
201 


BOOK 11. 


BOOK V. 


Vn.— The Bad Omen, ... 61 

VIII.— Before the Marriage, . . .69 

IX.— The Opening of the States-General, 76 

X.— The Inheritance of the Dauphin, . 79 

XI.— King Louis XVI., . . .84 

XII.— The Fifth of October, 1789, . 91 

Xni.— The Night of Horror, . . .102 


XXIV.— The Death of the Queen, 
XXV.— King Louis XVH., 
XXVI. — The Consultation, 
XXVII.— The Hobby-Horse, 

XX V 111.— Toulan’ 8 Death, 


. 210 
214 
. 233 

m 

. 254 


BOOK III. 


BOOK VI. 


XTV.- To Paris, 

XV.— Mamma Queen, 

XVI.— In St. Cloud, 

XVII.— Mirabeau, 

XTV^in.— Bevolution in the Theatre, 


112 

116 

130 

136 

144 


XXIX.— Without Name and Bank, 

XXX. — The Baron de Richemont, 

XXXI. — Fouche, 

XXXII. — Josephine, 

XXXin.— After Long Wanderings, 


259 

266 

278 

289 

296 




MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER I. 

A HAPPY QUEEN. 

It was the 13th of August, 1785. The queen, 
Marie Antoinette, had at last yielded to the re- 
quests and protestations of her dear subjects. 
She had left her fair Versailles and loved Trianon 
for one day, and had gone to Paris, in order to 
exhibit herself and the young prince whom she 
had borne to the king and the country on the 
2 5 til of March, and to receive in the cathedral 
of Notre Dame the blessing of the clergy and the 
good wishes of the Parisians. 

She had had an enthusiastic reception, this 
beautiful and much-loved queen, Marie Antoi- 
nette. She had driven into Paris in an open car- 
riage, in company with her three children, and 
every one who recognized her had greeted her 
with a cheerful huzza, and followed her on the 
long road to Notre Dame, at whose door the prom- 
inent clergy awaited her, the cardinal, prince Louis 
'de Rohan, at their head, to introduce her to the 
house of the King of all kings. 

Marie Antoinette was alone ; only the governess 
of the children, the Duchess de Polignac, sat op- 
posite her, upon the back seat of the carriage, and 
by her side the Norman nurse, in her charming 
variegated district costume, cradling in her arms 
Louis Charles, the young Duke of Normandy. By 
her side, in the front part of the carriage, sat her 

other two children — Therese, the princess royal, 

1 


the first-born daughter, and the dauphin Louis, 
the presumptive heir of the much-loved King 
Louis the Sixteenth. 

The good king had not accompanied his spouse 
on this journey to Paris, which she undertook in 
order to show to her dear, yet curious Parisians, 
that she was completely recovered, and that her 
children, the children of France, were blossoming 
for the future like fair buds of hope and peace. 

“ Go, my dear Antoinette,” the king had said 
to his queen, in his pleasant way and with his 
good-natured smile — “ go to Paris in order to pre- 
pare a pleasure for my good people. Show them 
our children, and receive from them their thanks 
for the happiness which you have given to me 
and to them. I will not go with you, for I wish 
that you should be the sole recipient of the en- 
thusiasm of the people and their joyful acclama- 
tions. I will not share your triumph, but I shall 
experience it in double measure if you enjoy it 
alone. Go, therefore, my beloved Antoinette, 
and rejoice in this happy hour.” 

Marie Antoinette did go, and she did rejoice 'in 
the happiness of the hour. While riding through 
Paris, hundreds recognized her, hundreds hailed 
her with loud acclamations. As she left the ca- 
thedral of Notre Dame, in order to ascend into the 
carriage again with her children and their govern- 
ess, one would be tempted to think that the 
whole square in front of the church had been 
changed into a dark, tumultuous sea, which dashed 
its raging black waves into all the streets do- 


2 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


boucliing on tlie square, and was filling all Paris 
with its roar, its swell, its thunder-roll. Yes, all 
Paris was there, in order to look upon Marie An- 
toinette, who, at this hour, was not the queen, but 
the fair woman ; the happy mother who, with the 
pride of the mother of the Gracchi, desired no 
other protection and no other companionship 
than that of her two sons ; who, her hand resting 
upon the sboulder of her daughter, needed no 
other maid of honor to appear before the people 
in all the splendor and all the dignity of the 
Queen of France and the true mother. 

Yes, all Paris was there in order to greet the 
queen, the woman, and the mother, and out of 
thousands upon thousands of throats there sound- 
ed forth the loud-ringing shout, “ Long live the 
queen ! Long live Marie Antoinette ! Long live 
the fair mother and the fair children of France !” 

Marie Antoinette felt herself deeply moved by 
these shouts. The sight of the faces animated 
with joy, of the flashing eyes, and the intoxicated 
peals of laughter, kindled her heart, drove the 
blood to her cheeks, and made her countenance 
beam with joy, and her eyes glisten with delight. 
She rose from her seat, and with a gesture of 
inimitable grace took the youngest son from the 
arms of the nurse, and lifted him high in the air, 
in order to display this last token of her happi- 
; ness and her motherly pride to the Parisians, who 
. Iiad not yet seen the child. The little hat, which 
‘had been placed sideways upon the high toupet 
vof her powdered head, had dropped upon her 
^^leck ; the broad lace cufls had fallen back from 
the arras which lifted the child into the air, and 
allowed the whole arm to be seen without any 
<i‘overing above the elbow. 

Yhe eyes of the Parisians drank in this specta- 
cle with perfect rapture, and their shouting arose 
every moment like a burst of fanaticism. 

“How beautiful she is ! ” resounded everywhere 
from the mass. “ What a wonderful arm ! What 
a beautiful neck ! ” 

A deep flush mantled the face of Marie Antoi- 
nette. These words of praise, which were a trib- 
ute the beauty of the woman, awoke the 
qu^en from the ecstasy into which the enthusiasm 


of her subjects had transported her. She surren- 
dered the child again to the arms of his nurse, 
and sank down quickly like a frightened dove into 
the cushions of the carriage, hastily drawing up 
at the same time the lace mantle which had fallen 
from her shoulders and replacing her hat upon 
her head. 

“ Tell the coachman to drive on quickly,” she 
said to the nurse ; and while the latter was com- 
municating this order, Marie Antoinette turned to 
her daughter. “ Now, Therese,” asked she, laugh- 
ing, “ is it not a beautiful spectacle — our people 
taking so much pleasure in seeing us ? ” 

The little princess of seven years shook her 
proud little head with a doubting, dark look. 

“ Mamma,” said she, “ these people look very 
dirty and ugly. I do not like them ! ” 

“ Be still, my child, be still,” whispered the 
queen, hastily, for she feared lest the men who 
pressed the carriage so closely as almost to touch 
its doors, might hear the unthinking words of the 
little girl. 

Marie Antoinette had not deceived herself. A 
man in a blouse, who had even laid his hand upon 
the carriage, and whose head almost touched the 
princess — a man with a blazing, determined face, 
and small, piercing black eyes, had heard the ex- 
clamation of the princess, and threw upon her a 
malignant, threatening glance. 

“ Madame loves us not, because we are ugly and 
dirty,” he said ; “ but we should, perhaps, look 
pretty and elegant too, if we could put on flnery to 
ride about in splendid carriages. But we have to 
work, and we have to suffer, that we may be able 
to pay our taxes. For if we did not do this, our 
king and his family would not be able to strut 
around in this grand style. We are dirty, because 
we are working for the king.” 

“ I beg you, sir,” replied the queen, softly, “ to 
forgive my daughter ; she is but a child, and does 
not know w’hat she is saying. She will learn from 
her parents, however, to love our good, hard- 
working people, and to be thankful for their love, 
sir.” 

“ I am no ‘ sir,’ ” replied the man, gruffly ; “ ] 
am the poor cobbler Simon, nothing more.” 


A HAPPY QUEEN 


3 


“ Then I beg you, Master Simon, to accept from 
my daughter, as a remembrance, this likeness of 
her father, and to drink to our good health,” said 
the queen, laying at the same time a louis-d’or in 
the hand of her daughter, and hastily whispering 
to her, “ Give it to him.” 

The princess hastened to execute the command 
of her mother, and laid the glistening gold-piece in 
the large, dirty hand w'hich was extended to her. 
But when she wanted to draw back her delicate 
little hand, the large, bony fingers of the cobbler 
closed upon it and held it fast. 

“ What a little hand it is ! ” he said, with a de- 
riding laugh ; “I wonder what would become of 
these fingers if they had to work ! ” 

“ Mamma,” cried the princess, anxiously, “ or- 
der the man to let me go ; he hurts me.” 

The cobbler laughed on, but dropped the hand 
of the princess. 

“ Ah,” cried he, scornfully, “ it hurts a princess 
only to touch the hand of a working-man. It 
would be a great deal better to keep entirely 
away from the working-people, and never to come 
among us.” 

“ Drive forward quickly ! ” cried the queen to 
the coachman, with loud, commanding voice. 

He urged on the horses, and the people who 
had hemmed in the carriage closely, and listened 
breathlessly to the conversation of the queen with 
the cobbler Simon, shrank timidly back before the 
prancing steed? 

The queen recovered her pleasant, merry smile, 
and bowed on all sides while the carriage rolled 
swiftly forward. The people again expressed 
their thanks with loud acclamations, and praised 
her beauty and the beauty of her children. But 
Marie Antoinette was no longer carried beyond 
herself by these words of praise, and did not rise 
again from her seat. 

While the royal carriage was disappearing in 
the tumult and throng of the multitude, Simon 
the cobbler stood watching it with his mocking 
smile. He felt a hand laid upon his arm, and 
heard a voice asking the scornful question : 

“Are you in love with this Aistrian woman. 
Master Simon ? ” 


The cobbler quickly turned round to confront 
the questioner. He saw, standing by his side, a 
little, remarkably crooked and dwarfed young 
man, whose unnaturally large head was set upon 
narrow, depressed shoulders, and whose whole ap- 
pearance made such an impression upon the cob- 
bler that the latter laughed outright. 

“ Not beautiful, am I ? ” asked the stranger, 
and he tried to join in the laugh of the cobbler, 
but the result was a mere grimace, which made 
his unnaturally large mouth, with its thick, color- 
less lips, extend from one ear to the other, dis- 
playing two fearful rows of long, greenish teeth. 

“ Not beautiful at all, am I ? Dreadfully ugly ! ” 
exclaimed the stranger, as Simon’s laughter 
mounted higher and higher. 

“You are somewhat remarkable, at least,” re- 
plied the cobbler. “ If I did not hear you talk 
French, and see you standing up straight like one 
of us, I should think you were the monstrous toad 
in the fable that I read about a short time ago.” 

“I am the monstrous toad of the fable,” replied 
the stranger, laughing. “ I have merely disguised 
myself to-day as a man in order to look at this 
Austrian woman wdth her young brood, and I take 
the liberty of asking you once more. Have you 
fallen in love with her ? ” 

“ No, indeed, I have not fallen in love with 
her,” ejaculated the cobbler. “God is my wit- 
ness — ” 

“ And why should you call God to witness ? ” 
asked the other, quickly. “ Do you suppose it is 
so great a misfortune not to love this Austrian ? ” 

“ No, I certainly do not believe that,” answered / 
the other, thoughtfully. “ I suppose that it is, 
perhaps, no sin before God not to love the queen, 
although it may be before man, and that it is not 
the first time that it has been atoned for by long 
and dreary imprisonment. But I do love freedom, 
and therefore I shall take care not to tell a 
stranger what I think.” 

“ You love freedom ! ” exclaimed the stranger. 

“ Then give me your hand, and accept my thanks 
for the word, my brother.” 

“ Your brother !” replied the cobbler, astound- 
ed. “ I ’do not know you, and yet you call 


4 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


yourself, without more formal introduction, my 
brother.” 

“You have said that you love freedom, and 
therefore I greet you as my brother,” replied the 
stranger. “All those who love freedom are 
brothers, for they confess themselves children of 
the same gracious and good mother who makes 
no difference between her children, but loves them 
all with equal intensity and equal devotion, and it 
is all the same to her whether this one of her 
sons is prince or count, and that one workman or 
citizen. For our mother. Freedom, we are all 
alike — we are all brethren.” 

“That sounds very finely,” said the cobbler, 
shaking his head.- “There is only one fault that 
I can find with it, it is not true. For if we were 
all alike, and were all brothers, why should the 
king ride round in his gilded chariot, while I,, an 
old cobbler, sit on my bench and have my face 
covered with sweat ? ” 

“ The king is no son of Freedom ! ” exclaimed 
the stranger, with an angry gesture. “ The king 
is a son of Tyranny, and therefore he wants to 
make his enemies, the sons of Freedom, to be his 
servants, his slaves, and to bind our arms with 
fetters. But shall we always bear this? Shall 
we not rise at last out of the dust into which we 
have been trodden ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly, if we can, then we will,” said 
Simon* with his gruff laugh. “ But here is the 
hitch, sir — we cannot do it. The king has the 
power to hold us in his fetters ; and this fine lady, 
Madame Freedom, of whom you say that she is 
our mother, lets it come to pass, notwithstanding 
that her sons are bound down in servitude and 
abasement.” 

“ It must be for a season yet,” answered the 
other, with loud, rasping voice ; “ but the day of 
a rising is at hand, and shows with a laughing 
face how those whom she will destroy are rushing 
swiftly upon their own doom.” 

“ What nonsense is that you are talking ? ” 
asked the cobbler. “ Those who are going to be 
destroyed by Madame Liberty are working out 
their own ruin ? ” 

“ And yet they are doing it, Master Simon ; 


they are digging their own graves, only they do 
not see it, and do not know it ; for the divinity 
which means to destroy them has smitten them 
with blindness. There is this queen, this Aus- 
trian woman. Do you not see with your wise 
eyes how like a busy spider she is weaving her 
own shroud ? ” 

“ Now, that is certainly an error,” said Simon ; 
“ the queen does not work at all. She lets the 
people work for her.” 

“I tell you, man, she does work, she is work- 
ing at her own shroud, and I think she has got a 
good bit of it ready. She has nice friends, too, to 
help her in it, and to draw up the threads for this 
royal spider, and so get ready what is needed for 
this shroud. There, for example, is that fine 
Duke de Coigny. Do you know who that Duke 
de Coigny is ? ” 

“ No, indeed, I know nothing about it ; I have 
nothing to do with the court, and know nothing 
about the court rabble.” 

“ There you are right, they are a rabble,” cried 
the other, laughing in return. “ I know it, for I am 
so unfortunate as not to be able to say with you 
that I have nothing to do with the court. I have 
gone into palaces, and I shall come out again, but 
I promise you that my exit shall make more stir 
than my entrance. Now, I will tell you who the 
Duke de Coigny is. He is one of the three chief 
paramours of the queen, one of the great favorites 
of the Austrian sultana.” 

“Well, now, that is jolly,” cried the cobbler; 
“ you are a comical rogue, sir. So the queen^as 
her paramours ? ” 

“Yes. You know that the Duke de Besenval, 
at the time that the Austrian came as dauphinesa 
to France, said to her: ‘ These hundred thousand 
Parisians, madame, who have come out to meet 
you, are all your lovers.’ Now she takes this ex- 
pression of Besenval in earnest, and wants to 
make every Parisian a lover of hers. Only wait, 
only wait, it will be your turn by and by. You 
will be able to press the hand of this beautiful 
Austrian tenderly to your lips.” 

“Well, I will let you know in advance, then,” 
said Simon, savagely, “ that I will press it in such 


A HAPPY QUEEN. 


o 


right good earnest, that it shall always bear the 
marks of it. You were speaking just now of the 
three chief paramours — what are the names of the 
other two ? ’’ 

“ The second is your fine Lord de Adhemar ; a 
fool, a rattle-head, a booby ; but he is handsome, 
and a jolly lover. Our queen likes handsome 
meu, and everybody knows that she is one of 
the laughing kind, a merry fly, particularly since 
the carousals on the palace terrace.” 

“ Carousals ! What was that ? ” 

“Why, you poor innocent child, that is the 
name they give to. those nightly promenades that 
our handsome queen took a year ago in the moon- 
light on the terrace at Versailles. Oh, that was a 
merry time. The iron fences of the park were 
not closed, and the dear people had a right to 
enter, and could walk near the queen in the moon- 
light, and hear the fine music which was concealed 
behind the hedges. You just ask the good-looking 
oflScer of the lancers, who sat one evening on a 
bench between two handsome women, dressed in 
white, and joked and laughed with them. He can 
tell you how Marie Antoinette can laugh, and what 
fine nonsense her majesty could afford to indulge 
in.”* 

“I wish I knew him, and he would tell me 
about it,” cried cobbler Simon, striking his fists 
together. “ I always like to hear something bad 
about this Austrian woman, for I hate her and 
the whole court crowd besides. What right have 
they to strut and swell, and put on airs, while we 
have to work and suffer from morning till night ? 
Wliy is their life nothing but jollity, and ours 
nothing but misery? I think T am of just as 
much consequence as the king, and my woman 
would look just as nice as the queen, if she would 
put on fine clothes and ride round in a gilded 
carriage. What puts them up and puts us 
down ? ” 

“ I tell you why. It is because we are ninnies 
and fools, and allow them to laugh in their sleeves 
at us, and make divinities out of themselves, be- 
fore whom the people, or, as they call them, the 
rabble, are to fall upon their knees. But patience, 


patience ! There will come a time when they will 
not laugh, nor compel the people to fall upon 
their knees and beg for favor. But no favor shall 
be granted to them. They shall meet their 
doom.” 

“ Ha ! I wish the time were here,” shouted the 
cobbler, laughing ; “ and I hope I may be there 
when they meet their punishment.” 

“Well, my friend, that only depenIs upon 
yourself,” said the stranger. “ The time vnll 
come, and if you wish you can contribute your 
share, that it may approach with more rapid 
steps.” 

“ What can I do ? Tell me, for I am ready for 
every thing ? ” 

“You can help whet the knife, that it may cut 
the better,” said the stranger, with a horrible 
grimace. “ Come, come, do not look at me so 
astonished, brother. There are already a good 
number of knife-sharpeners in the good city of 
Paris, and if you want to join their company, 
come this evening to me, and I will make you 
acquainted with some, and introduce you to our 
guild.” 

“Where do you live, sir, and what is your 
name ? ” asked the cobbler, with glowing curios- 
ity. 

“ I live in the stable of the Count d’ Artois, and 
my name is Jean Paul Marat.” 

“ In the stable ! ” cried the cobbler. “ My 
faith, I had not supposed you were a hostler or a 
coachman. It must be a funny sight, M. Marat, 
to see you mounted upon a horse.” 

“ You think that such a big toad as I does not 
belong there exactly. Well, there you are right, 
brother Simon. My real business is not at all 
with the horses, but with the men in the stable. 
I am the horse-doctor, brother Simon, horse-doc- 
tor of the Count d’ Artois ; and I can assure you 
that I am a tolerably skilful doctor, for I have 
yoked together many a hostler and jockey whom 
the stable-keepers of the dear Artois have favored 
with a liberal dispensation of their lash. So, 
come this evening to me, not only that I may -in- 
troduce you to good society, but come if you are 
sick. I will restore you, and it shall cost you 


♦ S^e Madame de Campane. “ Memoires,” vol i. 


6 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


nothing. I cure my brothers of the people with- 
out any pay, for it is not the right thing for 
brothers to take money one of another. So, 
brother Simon, I shall look for you this even- 
ing at the stable ; but now I must leave you, for 
my sick folks are expecting me. Just one more 
word. If you come about seven o’clock to visit 
me, the old witch that keeps the door will cer- 
tainly tell you that I am not at home. I will, 
therefore, give you the pass-word, which will allow 
you to go in. It is ‘ Liberty, Equality, Frater- 
nity.’ Good-by.” 

He nodded to the cobbler with a fearful 
grimace, and strode away quickly, in spite of not 
being able to lift his left foot over the broad 
square of the Hotel de Ville. 

Master Simon looked after him at first with a 
derisive smile, and this diminutive figure, with 
his great head, on which a high, black felt hat 
just kept its position, seemed to amuse him 
excessively. All at once a thought struck him, 
and, like an arrow impelled from the bow, he 
dashed forward and ran after Jean Paul Marat. 

“ Doctor Marat, Doctor Marat ! ” he shouted, 
breathless, from a distance. 

Marat stood still and looked around with a ma- 
licious glance. 

“Well, what is it?” snarled he, “and who is 
calling my name so loud ? ” 

“ It is I, brother Marat,” answered the cobbler, 
panting. “ I have been running after you be- 
cause you have forgotten something.” 

“ What is it ? ” asked Marat, feeling in his 
pockets with his long fingers. “ I have my hand- 
kerchief and the piece of black bread that makes 
my breakfast. I have not forgotten any thing.” 

“Yes, Jean Paul Marat, you have forgotten 
something,” answered M.aster Simon. “ You 
were going to teU me the names of the three 
chief paramours of the queen, and you have 
given only two — the Duke de Coigny and Lord 
Adhemar. You see I have a good memory, and 
retain all that you told me. So give me the name 
of the third one, for I will confess to you that I 
should like to have something to say about this 
matter in my club this afternoon, and it will 


make quite a sensation to come primed with this 
story about the Austrian woman.” 

“Well, I like that, I like that,” said Marat, 
laughing so as to show his mouth from one ear 
to the other. “Now, that is a fine thing to have 
a club, where you can tell all these little stories 
about the queen and the court, and it will be a 
real pleasure to me to tell you any such matters 
as these to communicate to your club, for it is 
always a good thing to have any thiug that takes 
place at Versailles and St. Cloud get talked over 
here at Paris among the dear good people.” 

“In St. Cloud?” asked the cobbler. “What is 
it that can happen there ? That is nothing at all 
but a tiresome, old-forgotten pleasure palace of 
the king.” 

“ It is lively enough there now, depend upon it,” 
replied Marat, with his sardonic laugh. “ King 
Louis the well beloved has given this palace to his 
wife, in order that she may establish there a larger 
harem than Trianon ; that miserable, worthless 
little mouse-nest, where virtue, honor, and worth 
get hectored to death, is not large enough for her. 
Yes, yes, that fine, great palace of the French 
kings, the noble St. Cloud, is now the heritage and 
possession of this fine Austrian. And do you know 
what she has done ? Close by the railing which 
separates the park from St. Cloud, and near the 
entrance, she has had a tablet put up, on which 
are written the conditions on which the public are 
allowed to enter the park.” 

“ Well, that is nothing new,” said the cobbler, 
impatiently. “ They have such a board put up 
at all the royal gardens, and everywhere the pub- 
lic is ordered, in the name of the king, not to do 
any injury, and not to wander from the regular 
paths.” 

“ Well, that is just it ; it is ordered in the name 
of the king ; but in St. Cloud, it runs in the name 
of the queen. Yes, yes, there you may see in 
great letters upon the board : ‘ In the name of 
the queen.’ * It is not enough for us that a king 
sits upon our neck, and imposes his commands 
upon us and binds us. We have now another 

* “De par la reine” was the expression which was 
then in the mouth of all France, and stirred everybody's 
rage. 


A HAPPY QUEEX. 


1 


ruler in Prance, prescribing laws and writing her- 
self sovereign. We have a new police regulation 
in the name of the queen, a state within the state. 
Oh, the spider is making a jolly mesh of it ! In 
the Trianon she made the beginning. There the 
police regulations have always been in the name 
of the queen ; and because the policy was suc- 
cessful there, it extends its long finger still fur- 
ther, issues a new proclamation against the people, 
appropriates to itself new domain, and proposes 
to gradually encompass all France with its cords.” 

“ That is rascally, that is wrong,” cried the 
cobbler, raising his clinched fists in the air. 

“ But that is not all, brother. The queen goes 
still further. Down to the present time we have 
been accustomed to see the men who stoop to be 
the mean servants of tyrants array themselves in 
the monkey-jackets of the king’s livery ; but in 
St. Cloud, the Swiss guards at the gates, the pal- 
ace servants, in one word, the entire menial corps, 
array themselves in the queen’s livery ; and if 
you are walking in the park of St. Cloud, you are 
no longer in France and on French soil, but in an 
Austrian province, where a foreigner can estab- 
lish her harem and make her laws, and yet a 
virtuous and noble people does not rise in oppo- 
sition to it.” 

“ It does not know any thing about it, brother 
Marat,” said Simon, eagerly. “ It knows very 
little about the vices and follies of the queen.” 

“Well, tell the people, then ; report to them 
what I have told you, and make it your duty that 
it be talked over among other friends, and made 
generally known.” 

“ Oh ! that shall be, that shall certainly be,” 
said Simon, cheerily, “ but you have not given me 
the name of that third lover yet.” 

“ Oh ! the third — that is Lord Besenval, the 
inspector general of the Swiss guard, the chief 
general of the army, and the commander of the 
Order of Louis. You see it is a great advantage 
for a man to be a lover of the queen, for in that 
way he comes to a high position. While King 
Louis the Fifteenth, that monster of vice, was 
living, Besenval was only colonel of the Swiss 
guard, and all he could do was once in a while to 


take part in the orgies at the (Eil de Boe.if. But 
now the queen has raised him to a very high 
place. All St. Cloud and Trianon form the (Eil 
de Boeuf, where Marie Antoinette celebrates her 
orgies, and General Besenval is made one of the 
first directors of the sports. Now you know 
every thing, do you not ? ” 

“ Yes, Doctor Marat, now I have a general run 
of every thing, and I thank you ; but I hope that 
you will tell me more this evening, for your stories 
are vastly entertaining.” 

“Yes, indeed, I shall tell you plenty more of 
the same sort, for the queen takes good care 
that we shall always have material for such sto- 
ries. Yet, unfortunately, I have no time now, 
for—” 

“ I know, I know, you have got to visit your 
sick people,” said Simon, nodding confidentially 
to him. “I wall not detain you any longer. 
Good-by, my dear Doctor Marat. We shall 
meet this evening.” 

He sprang quickly away, and soon disappeared 
round the next corner. Marat looked after him 
with a wicked, triumphant expression in his fea- 
tures. 

“So far good, so far good,” muttered he, shak- 
ing his head with choler. “ In this way I have 
got to win over the soldiers and the people to 
freedom. The cobbler will make an able and 
practicable soldier, and with his nice little stories, 
he will win over a wdiole company. Triumph on, 
you proud Bourbons ; go on dreaming in your 
gilded palaces, surrounded by your Swiss guards. 
Keep on believing that you have the power in 
your hands, and that no one can take it from you. 
The time will come when the people wull disturb 
your fine dream, and when the little, despised, ugly 
Marat, whom no one now knows, and who creeps 
around in your stables like a poisonous rat, shall 
confront you as a power before which you shall 
shrink away and throw yourselves trembling into 
the dust. There shall go by no day in which I 
and my friends shall not win soldiers for our side, 
and the silly, simple fool, Marie Antoinette, makes 
it an easy thing for us. Go on committing your 
childish pranks, which, when the time shall 


8 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


threaten a little, will justify the most villanous 
deeds and the most; shameless acts, and I will 
keep the run of all the turns of the times, and 
this fine young queen cannot desire that we should 
look at the world with such simple eyes as she 
does. Yes, fair Queen Marie Antoinette, thou 
hast thy Swiss guards, who fight for thee, and 
thou must pay them ; but I, I have only one sol- 
dier who takes ground for me against thee, and 
whom I do not have to pay at all. My soldier’s 
name is Calumny. I tell thee, fair queen, with 
this ally I can overcome all thy Swiss guards, and 
the whole horde of thy armies. For, on the earth 
there is no army corps that is so strong as Cal- 
umny. Hurrah ! long life to thee, my sworn ally. 
Calumny ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

MADAME ADELAIDE. 

Queen Marie Antoinette had returned, after 
her Paris ride, to her own Yersailles. She was 
silent the whole of the way, and the Duchess de 
Polignac had sought in vain to cheer her friend 
with light and pleasant talk, and drive away the 
clouds from her lofty brow. Marie Antoinette 
had only responded by enforced smiles and half- 
words, and then, settling back into the carriage, 
had gazed with dreamy looks into the heavens, 
whose cheerful blue called out no reflection upon 
the fair face of the queen. 

As they drew into the great court of the palace 
at Versailles, the drum-beat of the Swiss guards, 
presenting arms, and the general stir which fol- 
lowed the approach of the queen, appeared to 
awaken her from her sorrowful thoughts, and 
she straightened herself up and cast her glances 
about. They fell quite accidentally upon the 
child which was in the arms of the nurse oppo- 
site, and which, with great wide-open eyes, was 
looking up to the heavens, as its mother had 
done before. 

In the intensity of her motherly love, the queen 
stretched out her arms to the child and drew 


it to her heart, and pressed a burning kiss upon 
its lips. 

“ Ah ! my child, my dear child,” said she, softly, 
“you have to-day, for the first time, made your 
entry into Paris, and heard the acclamations 
of the people. May you, so long as you live, 
always be the recipient of kindly greetings, and 
never again hear such words as that dreadful man 
spoke to us to-day ! ” 

She pressed the little Duke of Normandy close- 
ly to her heart, and quite forgot that she was all 
this while in the carriage; that near the open 
portal the hostlers and lackeys were awaiting 
in a respectful posture the dismounting of he 
queen ; that the drums were all the while beat- 
ing, and that the guards were standing before 
the gates in the fixed attitude of presenting 
arms. 

The Duchess de Polignac ventured to suggest in 
softly-spoken words the necessity of dismounting, 
and the queen, with her little boy in her arms, 
sprang lightly and spiritedly, without accepting 
the assistance of the master of the grooms, out 
of the carriage, smiling cheerily, greeting the as- 
sembled chamberlains as she passed by, hurried 
into the palace and ran up the great marble stair- 
case. The Duchess de Polignac made haste to 
follow her, while the Princess Therese and the 
dauphin were received by their dames of honor 
and led into their respective apartments. The 
Norman nurse, shaking her head, hurried after 
the queen, and the chamberlains and both the 
maids of honor, shaking their heads, too, fol- 
lowed her into the great antechamber. After 
riding out, the queen was in the habit of dismiss- 
ing them there, but to-day Marie Antoinette had 
gone into her own suite of rooms without saying 
a word, and the door was already closed. 

“ What shall we do now ? ” asked both the 
maids of honor of the cavaliers, and received only 
a shrug of the shoulders for reply. 

“ We shall have to wait,” at last said the Mar- 
chioness de Mailly. “ Perhaps her majesty will 
have the kindness to remember us and to permit 
us to withdraw.” 

“ And if she should happen to forget it,” an- 


MADAME ADELAIDE. 


9 


swerecf the Princess de Chimay, “ we shall have 
to stand here the whole day, while the queen 
in Trianon is amusing herself with the fantastic 
pastoral plays.” 

“Yes, certainly, there is a country festival in 
Trianon to-day,” said the Prince de Custines, 
shrugging his shoulders, “and it might easily 
happen that we should be forgotten, and, like the 
unforgetable wife of Lot, have to stand here 
playing the ridiculous part of pillars of salt.” 

“ No, there comes our deliverance,” whispered 
the Marchioness de Mailly, pointing to a carriage 
which just then came rolling across the broad 
palace-square. “ It was yesterday resolved in 
secret council at the Count de Provence’s, that 
Madame Adelaide should make one more attempt 
to bring the queen to reason, and make her un- 
derstand what is becoming and what is unbecom- 
ing to a Queen of France. Now look you, in ac- 
cordance with this resolve, Madame Adelaide is 
coming to Versailles to pay a visit to her dis- 
tinguished niece.” 

Just then the carriage of the Princess Ade- 
laide, daughter of Louis the Fifteenth, and aunt of 
Louis the Sixteenth, drove thi’Ough the great gate 
into the guarded vestibule of the palace; two 
outriders rode in advance, two lackeys stood on 
the stand behind the carriage, and upon the step 
on each side, a page in richly-embroidered gar- 
merrts. 

Before the middle portal, which could only be 
used by the royal family, and which had never 
been desecrated by the entrance of one who was 

c 

“ lowly-born,” the carriage came to a stand-still. 
The lackeys hastened to open the gate, and a 
lady, advanced in years, gross in form, vdth an 
irritable face well pitted with pock-marks, and 
wearing no other expression than supercilious 
pride and a haughty indifference, dismounted 
with some difficulty, leaning upon the shoulder 
of her page, and toiled up the steps which con- 
ducted to the great vestibule. 

The runner sprang before her up the gi’eat 
staircase covered with its carpets, and with his 
long staff rapped on the door of the first ante- 
chamber that led to the apartments of the queen. 


“ Madame Adelaide ! ” shouted he with a loud 
voice, and the lackey repeated it in the same tone, 
quickly opening the door of the second antecham- 
ber ; and the word was taken up by the chamber- 
lains, and repeated and carried along where the 
queen was sitting. 

Marie Antoinette shrugged herself together a 
little at this announcement, which interrupted her 
while engaged in charming unrestrained conversa- 
tion with the Duchess de Polignac, and a shadow 
flitted across her lofty brow. 

With fiery quickness she flung her arms around 
the neck of her friend, and pressed a kiss upon 
her lips. “ Farewell, Julia ; Madame Adelaide is 
coming : that is just the same as irritation and 
annoyance. She may not bear the least suspicion 
of this upon her fine and dearly-loved face, and 
just because they are not there, I must tell you, 
my dear friend, to leave me. But hold yourself 
in readiness, after Madame Annoyance has left 
me, to ride with me to Trianon. The queen must 
remain here half an hour still, but she will be re- 
warded for it, for Marie Antoinette will afterward 
go with her Julia to Trianon to spend a half day 
of pleasure with her husband and friends.” 

“ And to impart to her friends an eternity of 
blissful recollections,” said the duchess, with a 
charming smile, pressing the hand of the queen 
to her lips, and taking her leave with inimitable 
grace, in order to pass out through the little side- 
door which entered the corridor through a porce- 
lain cabinet, intending then to visit the rooms of 
the ‘ children of France.’ 

At the same moment in which the lofty, digni- 
fied form of the duchess disappeared through the 
side-door, both wings of the main entrance were 
flung open, and the two maids of honor of the 
queen advanced to the threshold, and made so 
deep a reverence that their immense petticoats 
expanded like a kettle. Then they took a step 
backward, made another reverence so profound 
that their heads, bearing coiffures a foot and a 
half high, fell upon their breasts. 

“ Madame Adelaide ! ” they both ejaculated as 
with one voice, slowly straightening themselves 
up and taking their places at the sides of the door. 


10 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


The princess now appeared upon the threshold ; 
behind her, her maids of honor and master of 
ceremonies, the grand-chamberlain, the pages, 
and both masters of grooms, standing in the great 
antechamber. 

At the appearance of the maids of honor, Marie 
Antoinette had taken her position in the middle of 
the chamber, and could not repress a faint smile, 
as with erect head she noticed the confusion in- 
stant upon the princess’s imposing entrance. 

Madame Adelaide advanced some steps, for the 
queen did not change her position nor hasten 
toward her as she had perhaps expected ; her 
irritated look increased still more, and she did 
not take a seat. 

“ I come perhaps at an inconvenient season 
for your majesty,” said she, with a tart smile. 
“ The queen perhaps was just upon the point of 
going to Trianon, v/hither, as I hear, the king has 
already proceeded ? ” 

“ Has your highness heard that ? ” asked the 
queen, smiling. “I w^onder what sharp ears 
Madame Adelaide always has to catch such a 
tiifling rumor, while my younger ones have never 
caught the least hint of the important approach 
of the princess, and so I am equally surprised and 
delighted at the unexpected appearance of my 
gracious and loving aunt.” 

Every one of these words, which were spoken 
so cheerily and with such a pleasant smile, seemed 
to pierce the princess like the prick of a needle, 
and caused her to press her lips together in just 
such a way as if she wanted to check an outcry 
of pain or suppress some hidden rage. Marie 
Antoinette, while speaking of the sharp ears 
which madame always had, had hinted at the 
advanced age no less than at the curiosity of the 
princess, and had brought her young and unbur- 
dened ears into very advantageous contrast wdth 
them. 

“ Would your majesty grant me the favor of 
an interview? ” asked Madame Adelaide, who did 
not possess the power of entering on a contest 
with her exalted niece, with sharp yet graceful 
words. 

“ I am prepared with all pleasure,” answered 


the queen, cheerfully ; “ and it depends entirely 
upon madame whether the audience shall be pri- 
vate or public.” 

“ I beg for a half hour of entire privacy,” said 
Madame Adelaide, with choler. 

“ A private audience, ladies ! ” called the queen 
to her maids of honor, as motioning with her 
hand she dismissed them. Then she directed her 
great brilliant eyes to the door of the antecham- 
ber. “ My lord grooms, in half an hour I should 
like to have my carriage ready for Trianon.” 

The maids of honor withdrew into the great 
antechamber, and closed the doors behind them. 

The queen and Madame Adelaide were alone. 

“ Let us sit, if it pleases you,” said Marie An- 
toinette, motioning the princess to an arm-chair, 
while she took her own place upon a simple otto- 
man. “You have something to say to me, and I 
am entirely ready to hear you.” 

“Would to God, madame, that you would not 
only hear my w'ords,” said Madame Adelaide, with 
a sigh, “ but that you would take them to heart 
as well!” 

“ If they deserve it, I certainly shall,” said the 
queen, smiling. 

“ They certainly do deserve it,” said the prin- 
cess, “ for what I aim at in my w^ords concerns 
the peace, the security, the honor of our family. 
Madame, allow me first to disburden myself of 
something that has been committed to me. My 
noble and pious sister, Madame Louise, has given 
me this letter for your majesty, and in her name 
I ask our royal niece to read the same at once and 
in my presence.” ^ 

She drew from the great reticule, which was at- 
tached to her arm by its silken cords, a sealed 
letter, and handed it to the queen. 

But Marie Antoinette did not raise her hand to 
receive it, but shook her head as if in refusal, and 
yet with so eager a motion that her elaborate 
coiffure fairly trembled. 

“ I beg your pardon, madame,” said she, ear- 
nestly, “ but I cannot receive this letter from the 
prioress of the Carm Elite convent at St. Denis; 
for you well know that when Madame Louise sent 
me some years ago, through your highness, a let- 


MADAME ADELAIDE. 


11 


ter which I read, that I never again will receive 
and read letters from the prioress. Have the 
goodness, then, to take this back to the sender.” 

“You know, madame, that this is an affront 
directed against a princess of France ! ” was the 
emphatic reply. 

“ I know, madame, that that letter which I 
then received from Madame Louise was an affront 
directed by the princess against the Queen of 
France, and I shall protect the majesty of my 
station from a similar affront. Unquestionably 
this letter is similar in tone to that one. That 
one contained charges which went so far as to in- 
volve open condemnation, and contained proffers 
of counsel which meant little less than calumny.^ 
And what would this be likely to contain different, 
which your highness takes the trouble to bring to 
me?” 

“Well,” cried Madame Adelaide, angrily, “its 
purport may be similar to that of the former let- 
ter ; for, unfortunately, the causes are the same, 
and we may not wonder if the effects are also the 
same.” 

“ Ah ! one can easily see that your highness 
knows the contents of the letter,” said Marie An- 
toinette, smiling, “ and you will therefore cer- 
tainly pardon me for not reading it. It was un- 
questionably written in the presence of your high- 
ness, in the pious cell of the prioress. She gave 
over for a while her prayers for the repose of the 
departed king, in order to busy herself a little 
with worldly things, and to listen to the calum- 
nies which Madame Adelaide, or the Count de 
Provence, or the Cardinal de Kohan, or some 
other of the enemies of my person, have sought to 
hurl against the Queen of France.” 

“ Calumnies ! ” replied Madame Adelaide, with 
an angry flash in her eyes. “Would to God, 
madame, that it w^ere calumnies with which we 
have to do, and that all these things which trouble 
and disturb us were only malicious calumnies, and 
not sober facts ! ” 

“ And will your highness not have the good- 
ness to communicate these facts to me ? ” said 


the queen, undisturbed, but smiling, and so only 
increasing the anger of the princess. 

“ These facts are of so varied kinds that it 
would be a difficult thing to choose out any sep- 
arate ones among them,” cried she, with fiery 
tone. “ Every day, every hour of the life of your 
majesty, brings new facts to light.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Marie Antoinette, “ I had no idea 
that your highness had such tender care for me.” 

“ And I had no idea, madame, that your frivol- 
ity went so far as continually to wound the laws, 
the customs, and the hallow^ed order of things. 
You do it — you do it, scorning every thing estab- 
lished with the random w^antonness of a child 
that plays with fire, and does not know that the 
waves will flare up and consume it. Madame, I 
have come here to warn you once more, and for 
the last time.” 

“ God be thanked, for the last time ! ” cried the 
queen, with a charming glance of her eyes. 

“ 1 conjure you, queen, for your own sake, for 
your hutd^and’s, for your children’s, change your 
course ; take a new direction ; leave the path of 
danger on which you are hastening to irretriev- 
able destruction.” 

The countenance of the o^men, before so pleas* 
ant and animated, now darkened. Her smile 
gave way to a deep earnestness ; she raised her 
head proudly and put on a royal bearing. 

^ “ Madame,” said she, “ up to this time I have 
been inclined to meet your biting philippics with 
the quiet indifference which innocence gives, and 
to remain mindful of the reverence due to age, 
and not to forget the harsh eyes with which the 
aged always look upon the deeds of youth. But 
you compel me to take the matter more earnest- 
ly to heart,- for you join to my name that of my 
husband and my children, and so you appeal to 
my heart of hearts. Now, then, tell me, madame, 
what you have to bring against me.” 

“ Your boundless frivolity, your culpable short- 
sightedness, your foolish pleasures, your extrava- 
gance, your love of finery, your mixing with poli- 
tics, your excessive jovialness, your entertain- 
ments, your — ” 

Marie Antoinette interrupted this series ol 


♦ Gondvecourt, “ Histoire de Marie Antoinette,” p. 59. 


12 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


charges with loud, merry laughter, which more 
enraged the princess than the most stinging 
words would have done. 

“ Yes,” she continued, “ you are frivolous, for 
you suppose the life of a queen is one clear sum- 
mer’s day, to be devoted to nothing but singing and 
laughing. You are short-sighted, for you do not 
see that the flowers of this summer’s day in which 
you rejoice, only bloom above an abyss into which 
you, with your wanton dancing, are about to 
plunge. You indulge in foolish pleasures, instead 
of, as becomes a Queen of France, passing your 
life in seclusion, in devout meditation, in the ex- 
ercise of beneficence, in pious deeds. You are a 
spendthrift, for you give the income of France to 
your favorites, to this Polignac family, which it 
has been reckoned receives alone a twentieth part 
of the whole income of the state ; to these gra- 
cious lords and ladies of your so-called ‘ society,’ 
supporting them in their frivolity, allowing them 
to make golden gain out of you You are a lover 
of finery, not holding it beneath your dignity to 
spend whole hours with a poor milliner ; allow- 
ing a man to dress your hair, and afterward to 
go into the toilet chambers of the Parisian dames, 
that their hair may be dressed by the same hands 
which have arranged the hair of a queen, and to 
imitate the coiffure which the Queen of France 
wears. And what kind of a coiffure is that which, 
invented by a queen, is baptized with a fantastic 
name, and carried through Paris, France, and all 
Europe ? ” 

“ But,” said Marie Antoinette, with comical 
pathos, “ these coiffures have, some of them, hor- 
rid names. We have, for example, the ‘hog’s 
bristles coiffure' the ‘ flea-bite coiffure^ the ‘ dy- 
ing dog,’ the ‘flame of love,’ ‘modesty’s cap,’ 
a—” 

“ A queen’s levee,” interrupted the princess ; 
“a love’s nest of Marie Antoinette. Yes, we 
have come to that pass that the fashions are 
named after the queen, and all acquire a certain 
frivolous character, so that all the men and all 
the honorable women of Paris are in despair be- 
cause the thoughts of their daughters, infected 
with the millinery tastes of the queen and the 


court, shun all noble thoughts, and only busy 
themselves with mere affairs of taste. I have 
shown you, and you will not be able to deny it, 
madame, that this decline in manners, which 
has been engendered by this love of finery, pro- 
ceeds from you, and from you alone ; that not 
only your love of finery is to blame, but also your 
coquetry, your joviality, and these unheard-of, in- 
describable orgies to which the Queen of France 
surrenders herself, and to which she even allures 
her own husband, the King of France, the oldest 
son of the Church.” 

“ What does your highness mean ? ” asked the 
queen. “ Of what entertainments are you speak- 
ing ? ” 

“I am speaking of the entertainments which 
are celebrated in Trianon, to the perversion of 
all usage and all good manners. Of those or- 
gies in which the queen transforms herself into 
a shepherdess, and permits the ladies of her court, 
who ought to appear before her with bended 
knee and with downcast eyes, to clothe them- 
selves hke her, and to put on the same bearing 
as the queen’s ! I speak of those orgies where 
the king, enchanted by the charms of his wife, 
and allured by her coquetry, so far forgets his 
royal rank as even to take part himself in this 
stupid frivolity, and to bear a share in this trivial 
masquerading. And this queen, whose loud 
laughter fills the groves of Trianon, and who 
sometimes finds her pleasure in imitating the 
lowing of cows or the bleating of goats — ^this 
queen will afterward put on the bearing of a 
statesman, and will, with those hands which have 
just got through arranging an ‘ allegorical head- 
dress,’ dip into the machinery of state, interrupt- 
ing the arrangements of her entertainments to 
busy herself with politics, to set aside old, cher- 
ished ministers, to bring her friends and favorites 
into their places, and to make the king the mere 
executor of her will.” 

“Madame,” said the queen, as glowing with 
anger and with eyes of flame she rose from her 
seat — “madame, this is going too far, this over- 
steps the bounds that every one, even the prin- 
cesses of the royal house, owe to their sovereign. 


MADAME ADELAIDE. 


13 


I have allowed you to subject to your biting criti- 
cism my outer life, ^my pleasures, and my dress, 
but I do not allow you to take in hand my inner 
life — ^my relations to my husband and my per- 
sonal honor. You presume to speak of my fa- 
vorites. I demand of you to name them, and if 
you can show that there is one man to whom I 
show any other favor than a gracious queen may 
show to a servant, a subject whom she can honor 
and trust, I desire that you would give his name 
to the king, and that a close investigation be 
made into the case. I have friends ; yes, thank 
Heaven ! I have friends who prize me highly, and 
who are every hbur prepared to give their life for 
their queen. I have true and faithful servants ; 
but no one will appear and give evidence that 
Marie Antoinette has ever had an illicit - lover. 
My only lover has been the king, my husband, 
and I hope before God that he wdll ahvays remain 
so, so long as I live. But this is exactly what 
the noble princesses my aunts, what the Count 
de Provence, and the whole party of the old 
court, never will forgive me for. I have had the 
good fortune to win the love of my husband. 
The king, despite all calumnies and all intrigues, 

I lowered his glance to the poor young woman who 
stood solitary near him, and whom he had been 
I taught to prize lightly and to despise, and then 
I he found that she was not so simple, stupid, and 
! ugly, as she had been painted. He began to take 
some notice of her, and then, God be thanked, he 

) 

! overlooked the fact that she was of Austrian 

:t 

.! blood, and that the policy of his predecessor had 
|l ^ 

i| urged her upon him ; his heart warmed to her in 

love, and Marie Antoinette received this love as a 
gracious gift of God, as the happiness of her life. 
Yes, m a dame, I may say it wdth pride and joy, 
the king loves me, he trusts me, and therefore his 
wife stands nearer to him than even his exalted 
aunts, and I am the one whom he most trusts 
and whom he selects to be his chief adviser. But 
this is just the offence which will never be for- 
given me : it has fallen to my lot to take from my 
enemies and opponents their influence over my 
husband. The time has gone by when Madame 
Adelaide could gain an attentive ear when she 


came to the king, and in her passionate rage 
charged me with unheard-of crimes, which had no 
basis excepting that in some little matters I had 
loosened the ancient chains of etiquette ; the 
time is past when Madame Louise could pre- 
sume to drive me with her flashing anger from 
her pious cell and make me kneel in the 
dust ; and when it was permitted to the Count 
de la Morch to accuse the queen before the 
king of having risen in tune to behold the rising 
of the sun at Versailles, in company with her 
whole court. The king loves me, and Madame 
Adelaide is no longer the political counsellor of 
the king ; the ministers will no longer be ap- 
pointed according to her dictate, and the great 
questions of the cabinet are decided without ap- 
pealing to her ! I know that this is a new offence 
which you lay to my charge, and that by your 
calumniations and suspicions you make me suffer 
the penalty for it. I know that the Count de 
Provence stoops to direct epigrams and pam- 
phlets against his sister-in-law, his sovereign, and 
through the agency of his creatures to scatter 
them through Paris. I know that in his saloons 
all the enemies of the queen are welcome, and 
that charges against me are made without re- 
buke, and that there the weapons are forged with 
which I am assailed. But take care lest some 
day these weapons be turned against you ! It is 
you who are imperilling the king-dom, and under- 
mining the throne, for you do not hesitate setting 
before the people an example that nothing is 
sacred to you ; that the dignity of the throne no 
longer has an existence, but that it may be de- 
filed with vile insinuations, and the most poison- 
ous arrows directed against those who wear the 
crown of St. Louis on their head. But all you, 
the aunts, the brothers of the king, and the whole 
swarm of their intimates and dependants, you are 
all undermining the monarchy, for you forget that 
the foreigner, the Austrian, as you call her — that 
she is Queen of France, your sovereign, your lord, 
and that you are nothing better than her subjecta- 
You are criminals, you are high traitors ! ” 

“ Madame,” cried the Princess Adelaide, “ Mad- 
ame, what language is this that — ” 


14 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


It is the language of a woman in reply to a 
calumniator, the language of a queen to a rebel- 
lious subject. Madame, have the goodness not 
to answer me again. You have come into the 
palace of your sovereign to accuse her, and she 
has answered you as becomes her station. Now 
we have nothing more to say to each other. You 
requested a half hour’s private audience with me, 
and the time has gone. Farewell, madame ; my 
carriage stands ready, and I go to Trianon. I 
shall, however, say nothing to the king respect- 
ing the new attack which you have made upon 
me, and I premise you that I shall forget it and 
forgive it.”. 

She nodded lightly, turned herself around, and, 
with lofty carriage and proud self-possession, left 
the apartment. 

Princess Adelaide looked after her with an ex- 
pression of the deepest hate, and entirely forget- 
ful of her lofty station, even raised her hand 
threateningly in the direction of the door through 
which the noble figure of the queen had just van- 
ished. “ I shall not forget nor forgive,” muttered 
she. “ I shall have my revenge on this impudent 
person who dares to threaten me and even to 
defy me, and who calls herself my sovereign. 
This Austrian, a sovereign of the princess royal 
of France! We will show her where are the 
limits of her power, and where are the limits of 
France ! She shall go back to Austria ; we want 
her not, this Austrian who dares to defy us.” 

Proud and erect though the bearing was with 
which the queen left Madame Adelaide, she had 
hardly entered her own room and closed the door 
which separated her from her enemy, when she 
sank groaning upon a seat, and a flood of tears 
streamed from her eyes. 

“ Oh, Campan, Campan ! what have I been 
compelled to hear? ” cried she, bitterly. “ With 
what expressions have they ventured to address 
the Queen of France ! ” 

Madame de Campan, the first lady-in-waiting 
on the queen, who had just then entered the por- 
celain room, hastened to her mistress, and, sink- 
ing upon her knees, pressed the fallen hand of 
the queen to her lips. 


“Your majesty is weeping!” she whispered 
with her mild, sympathetic voice. “ Your ma* 
jest^^ has given the princess the satisfaction of 
knowing that she has succeeded in drawing tears 
from the Queen of France, and reddening her 
beautiful eyes.” 

“No, I will not give her this pleasure,” said 
the queen, quickly raising herself up and drying 
her eyes. “ I will be merry, and why do I weep ? 
She sought to make me sick; she sought to wound 
me, but I have given back the sickness, and the 
wounds which I have inflicted upon her will not 
so soon heal.” 

“ Has your majesty inflicted any thing upon 
the princess ? ” cried Madame de Campan, in 
agitation. 


“Yes,” answered Marie Antoinette, with tri- 
umphant joy. “ I have scourged her, I have 
wounded her, for I have distinctly intimated to 
her that I am Queen of France, and she my sub- 
ject. I have told her, that when she dares direct 
her calumnies against the queen, she is guilty of 
high-treason.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Madame de Campan, “ the 
proud princess will never pardon that. Your 
majesty has now become her irreconcilable ene- 
my, and she will leave no stone unturned to re- 
venge herself upon you.” 

“ She may attempt to revenge herself upon 
me,” cried the queen, whose countenance began . 
to brighten up once more. “ I fear neither her 
nor her whole set. All their arrows will fall 
powerless at my feet, for the love of my husband 
and my pure conscience form the protection which 
secures me. And what can these people accom- , 
plish against me ? They can slander me, that is , 
all. But their calumnies will, in the end, prove 
that it is lies they tell, and no one will give them 
confidence more.” 

“ Ah ! your majesty does not know the wicked- 
ness of the world,” sighed Campan, sadly. “Your 
majesty believes that the good are not cowardly, 
and that the bad are not reckless. Your majesty 
does not know that the bad have it in their power 
to corrupt public opinion ; and that then the good ' 
have not the courage to meet this corrupting in 


I 


MADAME 

Alienee. But public opinion is a monster that 
brings the charge, passes judgment, pronounces 
the sentence, and inAicts the punishment in one 
person. Who thinks lightly of it, arrays against 
himself an enemy stronger than a whole army, 
and less open to entreaty than death.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the queen, raising her head proud- 
ly, “ I do not fear this enemy. She shall not dare 
to attack me. She shall crouch and shrink before 
my gaze as the lion does when confronted by the 
eye of a virgin. I am pure and blameless. I 
pledged my troth to my husband before he loved 
me, and how shall I now break it, when he does 
love me, and is the father of my dear children ? 
And now, enough of these disagreeable things 
that want to cast their vileness upon us ! And 
the sun is shining so splendidly, and they are 
waiting for me in Trianon ! Come, Campan, 
come ; the queen will take the form of a happy 
wife.” 

Marie Antoinette hastened before her lady-in- 
waiting, hurried into her toilet-chamber in ad- 
vance of her lady-in-waiting, who followed, sigh- 
ing and shaking her head, and endeavored with 
her own hands to loosen the stiff corset of her 
robe, and to free herself from the immense crino- 
line which imprisoned her noble form. 

“Off with these garments of state and royal 
robes,” said Marie Antoinette, gliding out of the 
stiff apparel, and standing in a light, white under- 
garment, with bare shoulders and arms. “ Give 
me a white percale dress and a gauze mantle with 
it.” 

“ Will your majesty appear again in this sim- 
ple costume ? ” asked Madame de Campan, sigh- 
ing. 

“ Certainly, I will,” cried she ; “ I am going 
to Trianon, to my much-loved country-house. 
You must know, Campan, that the king has 
promised to spend every afternoon of a whole 
week with me at Trianon, and that there we 
are going to enjoy life, nature, and solitude. So, 
for a whole week, the king will only be king in 
the forenoon, and in the afternoon a respectable 
miller in the village Trianon. Now, is not that a 
merry thought, Campan ? And do you not see 


ADELAIDE. 15 

that I cannot go to Trianon in any other than a 
light white dress ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, I understand ; but I was 
only thinking that the tradespeople of Lyons had 
just presented a paper to your majesty, in which 
they complain of the decadence of the silk manu- 
facture, explaining it on the ground that your 
majesty has a preference for white clothing, and 
staling that all the ladies feel obliged to follow 
the example of their queen, and lay their silk 
robes aside.” 

“ And do you know, too,” asked Marie Antoi- 
nette, “ that Madame Adelaide has herself sup- 
ported this ridiculous paper of the Lyonnese mer- 
chants, giving out that I wear white percale be- 
cause I want to do my brother, the Emperor Jo- 
seph, a service, and so ordered these white goods 
from the Netherlands ? Ah, let us leave these 
follies of the wicked and the stupid. They shall 
not prevent my wearing white clothes and be- 
ing happy in Trianon. Give me a white dress 
quickly, Campan.” 

“Pardon, your majesty, but I must Arst sum- 
mon the ladies of the robing-room,” answered 
Madame de Campan, turning to the door of the 
sleeping-room. 

“ Oh, why all this parade ? ” sighed the queen. 
“ Can I never be free from the fetters of all this 
ceremony ? Could you not yourself, Campan, 
put a simple dress upon me ? ” 

“ Your majesty, I am only a poor, powerless 
being, and I fear enmities. The ladies would 
never forgive me if I should encroach upon their 
rights and separate them from the adored person 
of the queen. It is their right, it is their duty to 
draw the robe upon the person of your majesty, 
and to secure your shoes. I beg, therefore, your 
gracious permission to allow the ladies to come 
in.” 

“ Well, do it then,” sighed the queen. “ Let 
me bear the fetters here in Versailles until the 
last moment. I shall have my compensation in 
Trianon. Be assured I shall have my compen- 
sation there.” 

A quarter of an hour later the queen was ar- 
rayed in her changed attirf, and^came out from 


16 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


the toilet-chamber. The stiff crinoline had disap- 
peared ; the whalebone corset, with the long pro- 
jecting point, was cast aside ; and the high coif- 
fure^ which Leonard had so elaborately made up 
in the morning, was no more to be seen. A white 
robe, decorated at the bottom with a simple vo- 
lante, fell in broad artistic folds over her noble 
figure, whose full proportions had been concealed 
by the rigid state dress. A simple waist encir- 
cled her bust, and was held together by a blue 
sash, which hung in long ends at her left side. 
Broad cuffs, held together with simple, narrow 
lace, fell down as far as the wrist, but through 
the thin material could be seen the fair form of 
her beautiful arms ; and the white triangle of 
gauze which she had thrown over her naked neck, 
did not entirely veil the graceful lines of her full 
shoulders and her noble bust. Her hair, deprived 
of its unnatural disfigurement, and almost entire- 
ly freed from powder, arched itself above her 
fine forehead in a light toupet^ and fell upon her 
shoulders in rich brown locks, on which only a 
mere breath of powder had been blown. On her 
arm the queen carried a great, round, straw hat, 
secured by blue ribbons, and over her fair, white 
hands she had drawn gloves of black netting. 

Thus, with beaming countenance, with blushing 
cheeks, and with smiles curling around her full 
red lips; thus, all innocence, merriment, and 
cheerfulness, Marie Antoinette entered the sitting- 
room, where the Duchess de Polignac was wait- 
ing for her, in an attire precisely like that of the 
queen. 

The latter flew to the duchess with the quick- 
ness of a young girl, with the tenderness of a sis- 
ter, and drew her arm within that of her friend. 

‘‘Come, Julia,” said she, “let us leave the 
world and enter paradise.” 

“Ah, I am afraid of paradise,” cried the 
duchess, with a merry smile. “I have a horror 
of the serpent.” 

“ You shall find no serpents there, my Julia,” 
said the queen, drawing the arm of the duchess 
to herself. “ Lean upon me, my friend, and be 
persuaded that I will defend you against every 
serpent, and every low, creeping thing.” 


“ Oh, I fear the serpent more for my adored 
queen than for myself. What is there in me to 
harm ? But your majesty is exposed on every 
side to attack.” 

“ Oh, why, Julia,” sighed the queen — “ why do 
you address me with the stiff, formal title of ma- 
jesty when we are alone together ? Why do you 
not forget for a little etiquette when there is no- 
body by to hear us ? ” 

“ Tour majesty,” laughed the duchess, “ we are 
in Versailles, and the walls have ears.” 

“It is true,”, cried the queen, with quickly- 
restored merriment, “ we are here in Versailles ; 
that is your exculpation. Come, let us hasten to 
leave this proud, royal palace, and get away to the 
society of beautiful Nature, where there are no 
walls to hear us, but only God and Nature. Come, 
Julia.” 

She drew the duchess quickly out through the 
side door, which led to the little corridor, and 
thence to the adjacent staircase, and over the small 
court to one of the minor gates of the palace, lead- 
ing to the park. The coupe of the queen was 
standing before this door, and the master of the 
stole and the lackeys were awaiting the approach 
of the queen. 

Marie Antoinette sprang like a gazelle into the 
carriage, and then extended her hand to the 
duchess to assist her to ascend. 

“ Forward, forward ! ” cried the queen to the 
coachman, “and drive with all haste, as if the 
horses had wings, for I long to fly. Forward ! oh, 
forward ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

TKIANON. 

Fly, ye steeds, fly ! Bear the Queen of France 
away from the stiff, proud Versailles ; from the 
palaces of kings, where every thing breathes of 
exaltation, greatness, and unapproachableness ; 
bear her to little, simple, pretty Trianon, — ^to 
the dream of paradise, where all is innocence, 


TRIANON. 


simplicity, and peace ; where the queen may be a 
woman, and a happy one, too, and where Marie 
Antoinette has the right to banish etiquette, and 
’‘live in accordance with her inclinations, wishes, 
and humors. 

Yes, truly, the fiery steeds have transformed 
themselves into birds ; they cut the air, they 
scarcely touch the ground, and hardly can the 
driver restrain them when they reach the fence 
which separates the garden of Trianon from Yer- 
sailles. 

Light as a gazelle, happy as a young girl that 
knows nothing of the cares and burdens of life, 
Marie Antoinette sprang out of the carriage before 
the chamberlain had time to open the gate with 
its double wings, to let the queen pass in as a 
queen ought. Laughing, she glided through the 
little side gate, which suflSced for the more un- 
pretending visitor of Trianon, and took the arm 
of her friend the Duchess de Polignac, in order 
to turn with her into one of the side alleys. 
But, before doing so, she turned to the chamber- 
lain, who, standing in a respectful attitude, was 
awaiting the commands of his mistress. 

“ Weber,” said she to him, in the pleasant Aus- 
trian dialect, the language of her early home — 
“Weber, there is no need for you to follow us. 
The day is yours. You are free, as I am too. 
Meanwhile, if you meet his majesty, tell him that 
I have gone to the small palace, and that, if it 
pleases his majesty, he may await me in my little 
village at the mill. 

“ And now, come, my Julia,” said she, turning 
to the duchess, and drawing her forward with 
gentle violence, “now let us be merry and happy. 

I am no longer a queen, God be thanked ! I am 
neither more nor less than anybody else. That is 
the reason I was so well pleased to come through 
the small door just now. Through a narrow gate 
alone we can enter paradise, and I am entering 
paradise now. Oh, do you not see, my friend, ^ 
that the trees, the flowers, the bushes, every thing 
here is free from the dust of earth ; that even the 
heaven has another color, and looks down upon 
me brilliant and blue, like the eye of God ? ” 

“ It is just,” answered the Duchess de Polignac, 

2 


“ because you are seeing every thing with other 
eyes, your majesty.” 

“Your majesty!” cried Marie Antoinette. 
“You love me no longer ; your heart is es- 
tranged from me, since you address me with 
this cold title. In Versailles, you had a valid 
plea; but here, Julia, what can you offer in jus- 
tification ? The flowers are not listeners, the 
bushes have not ears, like the walls of Versailles, 
to spy out our privacy.” 

“ I say nothing for my exculpation,” answered 
the duchess, throwing her arm with a playful 
movement around the neck of the queen, and im- 
printing a kiss upon the lofty brow of Marie An- 
toinette. “ I only ask your pardon, and promise 
that I will be obedient and not disturb my friend’s 
dream of paradise all day long by an ill-timed 
word. Now will you forgive me, Marie \ ” 

“ With all my soul, Julia,” answered the queen, 
nodding to her in a friendly way. “ And now, 
Julia, as we have a happy vacation-day before 
us, we will enjoy it like two young girls who 
are celebrating the birthday of their grandmother 
after escaping from a boarding-school. Let us 
see which of us is the swiftest of foot. We will 
make a w'ager on it. See, there gleams our little 
house out from the shrubbery ; let us see which 
of us gets there first.” 

“ Without stopping once in the run ? ” asked 
the duchess, amazed. 

“I make no conditions; I only say, let us see 
who gets there first. If you win, Julia, I will 
give you the privilege of nominating a man to 
have the first place in my Swiss guards, and you 
may select the protege in whose behalf you were 
pleading yesterday. Come, let us run. One ! — ” 

“ No, Marie,” interrupted the duchess. “ Sup- 
posing that you are the first, what shall I give 
you ? ” 

“ A kiss — a hearty kiss — Julia. Now, forward ! 
One, two, three ! ” 

And, speaking these words in merry accents, 
Marie Antoinette sprang forward along the narrow 
walk. The round straw hat which covered her 
head was tossed up on both sides ; the blue rib- 
bons fluttered in the wind ; the white dress puiffed 


18 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


up ; and the grand-chamberlain of the queen and 
Madame Adelaide would have been horrified if 
they could have seen the queen flying along like 
a girl escaped from the boarding-school. 

But she, she never thought of there being any 
thing improper in the run ; she looked forward 
to the goal with laughing glances, as the white 
house emerged more and more from the verdure 
by which it was surrounded, and then sideways 
at her friend, who had not been able to gain a 
single step upon her. 

‘‘ Forward, forward ! ” shouted the queen; “I 
will and I must win, for the prize is a kiss from 
my Julia.” And with renewed speed the queen 
dashed along. The lane opened and terminated 
in a square in front of the palace. The queen 
stopped in her course, and turned round to see 
her friend, who had been left far behind her. 

As soon as the duchess saw it she tried to 
quicken her steps, and began to run again, but 
Marie Antoinette motioned with her hand, and 
went rapidly back to meet her. 

“You shall not make anymore effort, Julia,” 
said she. “ I have won, and you cannot bring my 
victory into question.” 

■“ And I do not wish to,” answered the duchess, 
with a merry look of defiance on her gentle fea- 
tures. “ I really did not wish to win, for it would 
have seemed as if I had to win what I want on 
the turn of a merry game. You have done wrong, 
Marie Antoinette. You want me to forget here 
in Trianon that you are the Queen of France. 
But you yourself do not forget it. Only the queen 
can propose such a prize as you have set, and 

V 

only the queen can ask so insignificant a boon on 
the other side. You have made it impossible for 
me to win, for you know well that I am not 
selfish.” 

“ I know it, and that is just the reason v/hy I 
love you so dearly, Julia. I have done wrong,” 
she went on to say with her gentle, sweet voice. 
“I see it, and I beg your forgiveness. Give me 
now as a proof that you do forgive me — give me 
the prize which I have won — a kiss, Julia, a kiss.” 

“Not here,” answered the duchess. “0, no, 
not .lere, Marie. Do not you see that the doors of 


the saloons are open, and that your company are 
all assembled. They would all envy me ; they 
would all be jealous if they were to see the prefer- 
ence which you show for me.” 

“Let them be jealous, let them envy you,” 
cried the queen; “the whole world .shall know 
that Julia de Polignac is my best-loved friend, 
that next to husband and children, I love no one 
so well as her.” 

With gentle violence the queen threw both her 
arms around the neck of the duchess, and kissed 
her passionately. 

“ Did you notice,” said the Baron de Besenval 
to Lord Adhemar, with whom he was playing a 
game of backgammon in the saloon, “ did you 
notice the tableau that the queen is presenting, 
taking for her theme a group representing Friend- 
ship ? ” 

“ I wish it were in my power to reproduce this 
wonderful group in marble,” answered Lord Ad- 
heraar, laughing. “ It would be a companion- 
piece to Orestes and Pylades.” 

“ But which,” asked the Duchess de Giiemene, 
looking up from her embroidery, “ which would 
be the companion of Orestes, pursued of Furies, 
surrounded by serpents ? ” 

“ That is the queen,” answered the Count de 
Yaudreuil, who was sitting at the piano and 
practising a new piece of music. “ The queen is 
the womanly OreSyl;es : the Furies are the three 
royal aunts ; and the serpents — pardon me, ladies 
— are, with the exception of yourselves, most all 
the ladies of Paris.” 

“ You are malicious, count,” cried Madame 
de Morsan, “ and were we by any chance not 
here, you would reckon us among the serpents.” 

“ If I should do so,” said Count Yaudreuil, 
laughing, “ I shquld only wish to take the apple 
from you, in order to be driven out of paradise 
with you. But still ! the queen is coming.” 

Yes, just then the queen entered the apart- 
ment. Her cheeks were glowing red by reason 
of her run, her bosom heaved violently with her 
hurried, agitated breathing. Her hat had fallen 
upon one side, and the dark blond hair was 
thrown about in wild confusion. 


I 


TRIANON. 


19 


It was not the queen who entered the saloon, 
it was onlyAIarie Antoinette, the simple, young 
woman, greeting her friends with brilliant glances 
and lively nods. It had been made a rule with 
her, that when she entered, no one should rise, 
nor leave the embroidery, or piano-playing, or any 
other occupation. 

The Tvomen remained at their work. Lords Be- 
senval and Adhemar went on playing their game 
of backgammon, and only the Count de Vau- 
dreuil rose from his place at the approach of the 
queen. 

“ What have you been playing, count ? ” asked 
Marie Antoinette. 

“I beg your pardon, if I leave your question 
unanswered,” replied the count, with a gentle in- 
clination of the head. “Your majesty has such 
a fine ear, that you must doubtless recognize the 
composer in the music. It is an entirely new 
composition, and I have taken the license of ar- 
ranging it for four hands. If your majesty would 
perhaps be inclined — ” 

“ Come,” interrupted the queen, “ let us try it 
at once.” 

Quickly, and with feverish impatience, she 
drew her black netted gloves from her delicate 
white hands, and at once took her place next 
to the count, on the seat already prepared for her. 

“ Will not the music be too difficult for me to 
play ? ” asked she, timidly. , 

“Nothing is too difficult for the Queen of 
France.” 

“ But there is a great deal that is too difficult 
for the dilettante^ Marie Antoinette,” sighed the 
queen. “ Meanwhile, we will begin and try it.” 

And with great facility and lightness of touch, 
the queen began to play the base of the piece 
which had been arranged by the Count de Vau- 
dreuil for four hands. But the longer she played, 
the more the laughter and the unrestrained gayety 
disappeared from the features of the queen. Her 
noble countenance assumed an expression of deep 
earnestness, her eye kindled with feeling, and the 
cheeks which before had become purple-red with 
the exercise of playing, now paled with deep in- 
ward emotion. 


All at once, in the very midst of the grand and 
impassioned strains, Marie Antoinette stopped, 
and, under the strength of her feeling, rose from 
her seat. 

“ Only Gluck can have written this ! ” cried 
she. “ This is the music, the divine music of 
my exalted master, my great teacher, Chevalier 
Gluck.” 

“ You are right; your majesty is a great musi- 
cian,” cried Lord Yaudreuil, in amazement, “ the 
ideal pupil of the genial maestro. Yes, this 
music is Gluck’s. It is the overture to his new 
opera of ‘ Alcestes,’ which he sent me from Venice 
to submit to your majesty. These tones shall 
speak for the master, and entreat for him the pro- 
tection of the queen.” 

“You have not addressed the queen, but my 
own heart,” said Marie Antoinette, with gentle, 
deeply-moved voice. “ It was a greeting from . 
my home, a greeting from my teacher, who is at 
the same time the greatest composer of Europe. 
Oh, I am proud of calling myself his pupil. But 
Gluck needs no protection ; it is much more we 
who need the protection which he affords us in 
giving us the works of his genius. I thank you, 
count,” continued Marie Antoinette, turning to 
Yaudreuil with a pleasant smile. “This is a 
great pleasure which you have prepared for me. 
But knowing, as I now do, that this is Gluck’s 
music, I do not dare to play another note ; for, to 
injure a note of his writing, seems to me like trea- 
son against the crown. I will practise this piece, 
and then some day we wdll play it to the whole 
court. And now', my honored guests, if it pleases 
you, we go to meet the king. Gentlemen, let 
each one choose his lady, for w'e do not w'ant to 
go in state procession, but by different paths.” 

All the gentlemen present rushed toward the 
queen, each desirous to have the honor of wait- 
ing upon her. Marie Antoinette thanked them 
all with a pleasant smile, and took the arm of the 
oldest gentleman there, the Baron de Besenval. 

“ Come, baron,” said she, “ I know a new path, 
which none of these gentry have learned, and I 
am sure that we shall be the fiiat to reach the 
place where the king is.” 


20 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Resting on the arm of the baron, she left the 
saloon, and passed out of the door opposite, 
upon the little terrace leading to the well-shaded 
park. 

“ We will go through the English garden. I 
have had them open a path through the thicket, 
which will lead us directly to our goal ; while the 
others will all have to go through the Italian gar- 
den, and so make a circuit. But look, my lord, 
somebody is coming there — who is it ? ” 

And the queen pointed to the tall, slim figure 
of a man who was just then striding along the 
terrace. 

“ Madame,” answered the baron, “ it is the 
Duke de Fronac.” 

“Alas!” murmured Marie Antoinette, “he is 
coming to lay new burdens upon us, and to put 
us in the way of meeting more disagreeable 
things.” 

“ Would it be your wish that I should dismiss 
him ? Do you give me power to tell him that you 
extend no audience to him here ? ” 

“ Oh 1 do not do so,” sighed Marie Antoinette. 
“ He, too, is one of my enemies, and we must 
proceed much more tenderly with our dear ene- 
mies than with our friends.” 

Just then the Duke de Fronac ascended the last 
terrace, and approached the queen with repeated 
bows, which she reciprocated with an earnest look 
and a gentle inclination of the head. 

“ Well, duke, is it I with whom the chief mana- 
ger of the royal theatres wishes to speak ? ” 

“Madame,” answered the duke, “I am come to 
beg an audience of your majesty.” 

“ You have it; and it is, as you see, a very im- 
posing audience, for we stand in the throne-room 
of God, and the canopy of Heaven arches over us. 
Now say, duke, what brings you to me ? ” 

“Your majesty, I am come to file an accusa- 
tion 1 ” 

“ And of course against me ? ” asked the queen, 
with a haughty smile. 

The duke pretended not to hear the question, 
and went on : 

“ I am come to bring a charge and to claim my 
rights. His majesty has had the grace to appoint 


me manager-in-chief of all the royal theatres, and 
to give me their supreme control.” 

“ Well, what has that to do with me ? ” asked 
the queen in her coldest way. “ You have then 
your duties assigned you, to be rightfully fulfilled, 
and to keep your theatres in order, as if they 
were troops under your care.” 

“ But, your majesty, there is a theatre w'hich 
seeks to free itself from my direction. And by 
virtue of my office and my trust I must stringent- 
ly urge you that this new theatre royal be de- 
livered into my charge.” 

“I do not understand you,” said the queen, 
coolly. “ Of what new theatre are you speaking, 
and where is it? ” 

“Your majesty, it is here in Trianon. Here 
operettas, comedies, and vaudevilles are played. 
The stage is furnished as all stages are ; it is a 
permanent stage, and I can therefore ask that 
it be given over into my charge, for, I repeat it 
again, the king has appointed me director of all 
the collective theatres royal.” 

“ But, duke,” answered the qeeeii with a some- 
what more pliant tone, “ you forget one thing, 
and that is, that the theatre in Trianon does not 
belong to the theatres of his majesty. It is 
my stage, and Trianon is my realm. Have 
you not read on the placards, which are at the 
entrance of Trianon, that it is the queen who 
gives laws here ? Do you not know that the 
king has given me this bit of ground that I may 
enjoy my freedom here, and have a place where 
the Queen of France may have a will of her 
own ? ” 

“Your majesty,” answered the duke with an 
expression of the profoundest deference, “ I beg 
your pardon. I did not suppose that there was 
a place in France where the king is not the lord 
paramount, and where his commands are not im- 
perative.” 

“ You see, then, that you are mistaken. Here 
in Trianon I am king, and my commands are 
binding.” 

“ That does not prevent, your majesty, the com- 
mands of the king having equal force,” replied 
the duke, with vehemence. “And even if the 


TRIANON. 


21 


Queen of France disowns these laws, yet others 
do not dare take the risk of following the example 
of the queen. For they remain, wherever they 
are, the subjects of the king. So even here in 
Trianon I am still the obedient subject of his ma- 
jesty, and his commands and my duties are bound 
to be respected by me.” 

“ My lord duke,” cried the queen with fresh 
impatience, “ you are free never to come to Tri- 
anon. I give you my full permission to that end, 
and thus you will be relieved from the possibility 
of ever coming into collision with your ever-deli- 
cate conscience and the commands of the king.” 

“But, your majesty, there is a theatre in Tri- 
anon ! ” 

“Not this indefinite phrase, duke; there is a 
theatre in Trianon, but I the queen, the princes 
of the royal family, and the guests I invite, sup- 
port a theatre in Trianon. Let me say this once 
for all : you cannot have the direction where we 
are the actors. Besides, I have had occasion 
several times to give you my views respecting 
Trianon. I have no court here. I live here as a 
private person. I am here but a land-owner, and 
the pleasures and enjoyments which I provide 
here for myself and my friends shall never be 
supci’vised by any one but myself alone.” * 

“ Your majesty,” said the duke, with a cold 
smile, “it is no single person that supervises you; 
it is public opinion, and I think that this will 
speak on my side.” 

The duke bowed, and, without waiting for a sign 
from the queen to withdraw, he turned around 
and began to descend the terrace. 

“He is a shameless man!” muttered the queen, 
with pale cheeks and flashing eyes, as she fol- 
lowed him with her looks. 

“ He is ambitious,” whispered Besenval ; “ he 
implores your majesty in this way, and risks his 
life and his office, in the hope of being received 
into the court society.” 

“No, no,” answered Marie Antoinette, eagerly; 
“ there is nothing in me that attracts him. The 
king's aunts have set him against me, and this is 


a new way which their tender care has conjured 
up to irritate me, and make me sick. Yet let us 
leave this, baron. Let us forget this folly, and 
only remember that we are in Trianon. See, we 
are now entering my dear English-garden. Oh, 
look around you, baron, and then tell me is it not 
beautiful here, and have I not reason to be proud 
of what I have called here into being ? ” 

While thus speaking, the queen advanced with 
eager, flying steps to the exquisite beds of flow- 
ers which beautifully variegated the surface of the 
English garden. 

It was in very truth the creation of the queen, 
this English garden, and it formed a striking con- 
trast to the solemn, stately hedges, the straight 
alleys, the regular flower-beds, the carefully walled 
pools and brooks, which were habitual in the 
gardens of Versailles and Trianon. In the Eng- 
lish-garden every thing was cosy and natural. 
The waters foamed here, and there they gathered 
themselves together and stood still ; here and 
there were plants which grew just where the wind 
had scattered the seed. Hundreds of the finest 
trees — willows, American oaks, acacias, firs — 
threw their shade abroad, and wrought a rich di- 
versity in the colors of the foliage. The soil here 
rose into gentle hillocks, and there sank in de- 
pressions and natural gorges. All things seemed 
without order or system, and where art had done 
its work, there seemed to be the mere hand of 
free, unfettered Nature. 

The farther the queen advanced with her com- 
panion into the garden, the more glowing became 
her countenance, and the more her eyes beamed 
with their accustomed fire. 

“ Is it not beautiful here ? ” asked she, of the 
baron, who was walking silently by her side. 

“It is beautiful wherever your majesty is,” 
answered he, with an almost too tender tone. 
But the queen did not notice it. Her heart was 
filled with an artless joy ; she listened with sus- 
pended breath to the trilling song of the birds, 
warbling their glad hymns of praise out from the 
thickets of verdure. How could she have any 
thought of the idle suggestions of the voice of 
the baron, who had been chosen as her companion 


* The very words of the queen. — See Goncourt, “ His- 
toire de Marie Antoinette,” p. 106. 


22 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


because of bis forty*five years, and of his hair 
being tinged with gray? 

“ It seems to me, baron,” she said, with a 
charming laugh, while looking at a bird which, 
its song just ended, soared from' the bushes to the 
heavens — “it seems to me as if Nature wanted to 
send me a greeting, and deputed this bird to 
bring it to me. Ah,” she went on to say, with 
quickly clouded brow, “ it is really needful that I 
should at times hear the friendly notes and the 
sweet melodies of such a genuine welcome. I 
have suffered a great deal to-day, baron, and the 
welcome of this bird of Trianon was the balm of 
many a wound that I have received since yester- 
day.” 

“ Your majesty was in Paris ? ” asked Besenval, 
hesitatingly, and with a searching glance of his 
cunning, dark eyes, directed to the sad counte- 
nance of Marie Antoinette. 

“ I was in Paris,” answered she, with a flush 
of joy ; “ and the good Parisians welcomed the 
wife of the king and the mother of the children 
of France with a storm of enthusiasm.” 

“ No, madame,” replied the baron, reddening, 
“ they welcomed with a storm of enthusiasm the 
most beautiful lady of France, the adored queen, 
the mother of all poor and suffering ones.” 

“ And yet there was a dissonant note w^hich 
mingled with all these jubilee tones,” said the 
queen, thoughtfully. “ While all were shouting, 
there came one voice which sounded to my ear 
like the song of the bird of misfortune. Believe 
me, Besenval, every thing is not as it ought to be. 
There is something in the air which fills me with 
anxiety and fear. I cannot drive it jiway ; I feel 
that the sword of Damocles is hanging over my 
head, and that my hands are too weak to remove 
it.” 

“ A woe to the traitors who have dared to raise 
the sword of Damocles over the head of the 
queen ! ” cried the baron, furiously 

“Woe to them, but woe to me too!” replied 
the queen, with gentle sadness. “ I have this 
morning had a stormy interview with Madame 
Adelaide. It appears that my enemies have con- 
cocted a new way of attacking me, and Madame 


Adelaide was the herald to announce the begin 
ning of the tournament.” 

“ Did she venture to bring any accusations 
against your majesty?” asked Besenval. The 
queen replying in the affirmative with a nod, he 
went on. “But what can they say ? Whence 
do they draw the poisoned arrows to wound the 
noblest and truest of hearts ? ” 

“ They draw them from their jealousy, from 
their hatred against the house of Austria, from 
the rage with which they look upon the manner 
in which the king has bestowed his love. ‘ What 
can they say ? ’ They make out of little things 
monstrous crimes. They let a pebble grow into a 
great rock, with which they strive to smite me 
down. Oh, my friend, I have suffered a great 
deal to-day, and, in order to tell you this, I 
chose you as my companion. I dare not com- 
plain before the king,” Marie Antoinette went on, 
Vvdiile two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, 
“ for I will not be the means of opening a breach 
in the family, and the king would cause them to 
feel his wrath who have drawn tears from the 
eyes of his wife. But you are my friend, Besen- 
val, and I confide in your friendship and in your 
honor. Now, tell me, you who know the world, 
and who are my senior in experience of life, toll 
me whether I do wrong to live as I do. Are the 
king’s aunts right in charging it upon me as a 
crime, that I take part in the simple joys of life, 
that I take delight in my youth and am happy ? 
Is the Count de Provence right in charging me, 
as with a crime, that I am the chief counsellor of 
the king, and that I venture to give him my views 
regarding political matters ? Am I really con- 
demned to stand at an unapproachable distance 
from the people and the court, like a beautiful 
statue ? Is it denied to me to have feeling, to 
love and to hate, like everybody else ? Is the 
Queen of France nothing but the sacrificial lamb 
which the dumb idol etiquette carries in its leaden 
arms, and crushes by slowly pressing it to itself? 
Tell me, Besenval ; speak to me like an honorable 
and upright man, and remember that God is above 
us and hears our words ! ” 

“ May God be my witness,” said Besenval, sol- 


TRIANON. 


23 


emnly. “ Nothing lies nearer my heart than that 
your majesty hear me. For my life, my happi- 
ness, and my misery, all lie wrapped up in the 
heart of your majesty. No, I answer — no ; the 
aunts of the king, the old princesses, look with 
the basilisk eye of envy from a false point. They 
have lived at the court of their father ; they have 
seen Vice put on the trappings of Virtue ; they 
have seen Shamelessness array itself in the gar- 
ments of Innocence, and they no longer retain 
their faith in Virtue or Innocence. The purity of 
the queen appears to them to be a studied coquet- 
ry, her unconstrained cheerfulness to be culpable 
frivolity. No, the Count de Provence is not right 
in bringing the charge against the king that it is 
wrong in him to love his wife with the intensity 
and self-surrender with which a citizen loves the 
wife whom he has himself selected. He is not 
right in alleging it as an accusation against you, 
that you are the counsellor of the king, and that 
you seek to control political action. Your whole 
offence lies in the fact that your political views 
are different from his, and that, through the influ- 
ence which you have gained over the heart of the 
king, his aunts are driven into the background. 
Your majesty is an Austrian, a friend of the Duke 
de Choiseul. That is your whole offence. Now 
you would not be less blameworthy in the eyes 
of these enemies were you to live in exact con- 
formity with the etiquette-books of the Queen of 
France, covered with the dust of a hundred years. 
Your majesty would therefore do yourself and the 
whole court an injury were you to allow your 
youth, your beauty, and your innocence, to be sub- 
jected to these old laws. It were folly to con- 
demn yourself to ennui and solitude. Does not 
the Queen of France enjoy a right which the 
meanest of her subjects possesses, of collecting 
her owm chosen friends around her and taking 
her pleasure* with them. We live, I know, in an 
age of reckless acts ; but may there not be some 
recklessness in dealing with the follies of eti- 
quette ? They bring’it as a charge against your 
majesty that you abjure the great court circles, 
and the stiff set with which the royal family of 
France used to martyr itself. They say that by 


giving up ceremony you are undermining the re- 
spect which the people ought to cherish toward 
royalty. But would it not be laughable to think 
that the obedience of the people depends upon 
the number of the hours which a royal family 
may spend in the society of tedious and weari- 
some courtiers ? No, my queen, do not listen to 
the hiss of the hostile serpents which surround 
you. Go, courageously, your own way — the way 
of innocence, guilelessness, and love.” 

“ I thank you — oh, I thank you ! ” cried Marie 
Antoinette. “ You have lifted heavy doubts from 
my heart and strengthened my courage. I thank 
you ! ” 

And, with beaming eyes and a sweet smile, she 
extended both her hands to the baron. 

He pressed them tightly within his own, and, 
sinking upon his knee, drew the royal hands with 
a glow to his lips. 

“ Oh, my queen, my mistress ! ” he cried, pas- 
sionately, “ behold at your feet your most faithful 
servant, your most devoted slave. . Receive from 
me the oath of my eternal devotion and love. 
You have honored me with your confidence, you 
have called me your friend. But my soul and my 
heart glow for another name. Speak the word, 
Marie Antoinette, the word—” 

The queen drew back, and the paleness of 
death spread over her cheeks. She had at the 
outset listened with amazement, then with hor- 
ror and indignation, to the insolent words of the 
baron, and gradually her gentle features assumed 
a fierce and disdainful expression. 

“My lord,” she said, with the noble dignity of 
a queen, “ I told you before that God is above us, 
and hears our words. You have spoken, wantonly, 
and God has heard you. To Him I leave the 
punishment of your wantonness. Stand up, ray 
lord ! the king shall know nothing of an insult 
which would have brought you into ignominy 
with him forever. But if you ever, by a glance 
or a gesture, recall this both wanton and ridicu- 
lous scene, the king shall hear all from me ! ” 

And while the queen pointed, with a proud and 

dignified gesture to the place which was their 

/ 

goal, she said, with commanding tone : 


24 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ Go before, my lord ; I will follow you 
alone.” 

The Baron de Besenval, the experienced cour- 
tier, the practised man of the world, was under- 
going what was new to him ; he felt himself per- 
plexed, ashamed, and no longer master of his 
words. He had risen from his knees, and, after 
making a stiff obeisance to the queen, he turned 
and went with a swift step and crestfallen look 
along the path which the queen had indicated. 

Marie Antoinette followed him with her eyes 
so long as he remained in sight, then looked with 
a long, sad glance around her. 

“And so I am alone again,” she whispered, 
“and poorer by one illusion -more. Ah, and is it 
then true that there is no friendship for me ; must 
every friend be an envier or else a lover ? Even 
this man, whom I honored with my confidence, 
toward whom I cherished the feeling of a pupil 
toward a teacher, even this man has dared to in- 
sult me ! Ah, must my heart encounter a new 
wonder every day, and must my happiness be 
purchased with so many pains ? ” 

And with a deep cry of pain the queen drew 
her hands to her face, and wept bitterly. All 
around was still. Only here and there were 
heard the songs of the birds in the bushes, light 
and dreamy; while the trees, swayed by the wind, 
gently whispered, as if they wanted to quiet the 
grief of the queen, and dry up those tears which 
fell upon the flowers. 

All at once, after a short pause, the queen let 
her hands fall again, and raised her head with 
proud and defiant energy. 

“ Away with tears ! ” she said. “ What would 
my friends say were they to see me ? What buzz- 
ing and whispering would there be, were they to 
see that the gentle queen, the always happy and 
careless Marie Antoinette, had shed tears ? Oh, 
my God ! ” she cried, raising her large eyes to 
heaven, “ I have to-day paid interest enough for 
my happiness ; preserve for me at least the capi- 
tal, and I will cheerfully pay the world the high- 
est rates, such as only a miserly usurer can de- 
sire.” 

And with a proud spirit, and a lofty carriage, the 


queen strode forward along the path. The bushes 
began to let the light through, and the queen 
emerged from the English garden into the small 
plain, in whose midst Marie Antoinette had 
erected her Arcadia, her dream of paradise. The 
queen stood still, and with a countenance which 
quickly kindled with joy, and with eyes which 
beamed with pleasure, looked at the lovely view 
which had been called into being by the skill of 
her architect, Hubert Robert. 

And the queen might w’ell rejoice in this crea- 
tion, this poetic idyl, wdiich arose out of t^^e 
splendor of palaces like a violet in the sand, and 
among the variegated tropical flowers wdiich adorn 
the table of a king. Closely adjoining each other 
were little houses like those in which peasants 
live, the peasant-women being the proud ladies ' 
of the royal court. A little brook babbled behind 
the houses, and turned with its foaming torrent 
the white wheel of the mill wdiich was at the 
extremity of the village. Near the mill, farther 
on, stood entirely alone a little peasant’s house, 
especially tasteful and elegant. It w^as surrounded 
by flower-beds, vineyards, and laurel-patlis. The 
roof w’as covered wdth straw ; the little panes 
w^ere held by leads to the sashes. It w^as the 
home of Marie Antoinette. The queen herself 
made the drawdngs, and wrought out the plan. It 
w'as her choice that it should be small, simple, 
and modest ; that it should have not the slightest 
appearance of newness, and that rents and As- 
sures should be represented on the wall by artifi- 
cial contrivances, so as to give the house an old 
look, and an appearance of having been injured. 
She had little thought how speedily time could 
demolish the simple pastimes of a queen. Close 
by stood a still smaller house, known as the milk- 
room. It was close to the brook. And when 
Marie Antoinette, with her peasant-wmmen, had 
milked the cows, they bore the milk through the 
village in wdiite buckets, with silver handles, to 
the milk-room, where it w^as poured out into pretty, 
white pans standing on tables of white marble. On 
the other side of the road was the house of the 
chief-magistrate of the village, and close by lived 
the schoolmaster. 


TRIANON. 


25 


Marie Antoinette had had a care for every- 
thing. There were bins to preserve the new 
crops in, and before the hay-scaffoldings were 
ladders leading up to the fragrant hay. 

“ Ah, the world is beautiful,” said Marie An- 
toinette, surveying her creation with a cheerful 
look. “ I will enjoy the pleasant hours, and be 
happy here.” 

She walked rapidly forward, casting friendly 
glances up to the houses to see whether the peas- 
ants had not hid themselves within, and were 
waiting for her. But all was still, and not one 
of the inhabitants peeped out from a single win- 
dow. 

All at once the stillness was broken by a loud 
clattering sound. The white wheel of the mill 
began to turn, and at the door appeared the 
corpulent form of the miller in his white gar- 
ments, with his smiling, meal-powdered face, and 
with the white cap upon his head. 

The queen uttered an exclamation of delight, 
and ran with quick steps toward the mill. But 
before she could reach it, the door of the ofHcial’s 
house opposite opened, and the mayor, in his 
black costume, and with the broad white ribbon 
around his neck ; the Spanish cane, v/ith a gold 
knob, in his hand, and wearing his black, three- 
cornered hat, issued from the dwelling. He ad- 
vanced directly to Marie Antoinette, and resting 
his hands upon his sides and assuming a threat- 
ening mien, placed himself in front of her. 

“We are very much dissatisfied with you, for 
you neglect your duties of hospitality in a most 
unbecoming manner. We must have you give 
your testimony why you have come so late, for 
the flowers are all hanging their heads, the night- 
ingales will not sing any more, and the lambs in 
the meadow will not touch the sweetest grass. 
Every thing is parching and dying because you are 
not here, and with desire to see you.” 

“ That is not true,” cried another merry voice ; 
the window of the school-house opened with a 
rattle, and the jolly young schoolmaster looked 
out and threatened with his rod the grave mayor. 

“ How can you say, sir, that every thing is 
going to ruin ? am I not here to keep the whole 


together ? Since the unwise people stopped learn- 
ing, I have become the schoolmaster of the dear 
kine, and am giving them lessons in tlie art of 
making life agreeable. I am the dancing-master 
of the goats, and have opened a ballet-school for 
the kids.” 

Marie Antoinette laughed aloud. “ Mister 
schoolmaster,” said she, “I am very desirous 
to have a taste of your skill, and I desire you 
to give a ballet display this afternoon upon the 
great meadow. So far as you are concerned, 
Mr. Mayor,” she said, wdth a laughing nod, “ I 
desire you to exercise a little forbearance, and 
to pardon some things in me for my youth’s 
sake.” 

“ As if my dear sister-in-law now needed any 
looking after !” cried the mayor, with an emphatic 
tone. 

“ Ah, my Lord de Provence,” said the queen, 
smiling, “ you are falling out of your part, and 
forgetting two things. The first, that I am not 
the queen here ; and the second, that here in 
Trianon all flatteries are forbidden.” 

“ It lies in you, w^hether the truth should ap- 
pear as flattery,” answered the Count de Prov- 
ence, slightly bowing. 

“ That is an answer worthy of a scholar,” cried 
the schoolmaster. Count d’ Artois. “ Brother, you 
do not know the A B C of gallantry. You must 
go to school to me.” 

“ I do not doubt, brother Charles, that in this 
thing I could learn very much of you,” said tlie 
Count de Provence, smiling. “ Meanwhile, I am 
not sure that ray wife would be satisfied with the 
instruction.” 

“ Some time we will ask her about it,” said the 
queen. “ Goed-by, my brothers, I must first greet 
my dear miller.” 

She rushed forward, sprang wdth a flying step 
up the little wooden stairway, and threw both her 
arms around the neck of the miller, who, laugh- 
ingly, pressed her to his heart, and drew her 
within the mill. 

“ I thank you, Louis ! ” cried the queen, bend- 
ing forward and pressing the hand of her husband 
to her lips. “ What a pleasant surprise you 


26 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


have prepared for me ; and how good it is in you 
to meet me here in my pleasant plantation !” 

“ Did you not say but lately that you wanted 
this masquerade?” asked the king, with a pleas- 
ant smile. “ Did not you yourself assign the 
parts, and appoint me to be the miller, the 
Count de Provence to be mayor, and the whimsi- 
cal Artois to be schoO'lmaster de par la reine^ as 
it runs here in Trianon, and do you wonder 
now that we, as it becomes the obedient, follow 
our queen’s commands, and undertake the charge 
which she intrusts to us ? ” 

“ Oh, Louis, how good you are ! ” said the queen, 
with tears in her eyes, “I know indeed how lit- 
tle pleasure you, so far as you yourself are con- 
cerned, find in these foolish sports and idle acts, 
and yet you sacrifice your own washes and take 
part in our games.” 

“ That is because I love you ! ” said the king 
with simplicity, and a smile of pleasure beautified 
his broad, good-natured face. “ Yes, Marie, I 
love you tenderly, and it gives me joy to con- 
tribute to your happiness.” 

The queen gently laid her arm around Louis’s 
neck, and let her head fall upon his shoulder. 
“ Do you still know, Louis,” asked she, “ do you 
still know what you said to me w^hen you gave 
Trianon to me ? ” 

“Well,” said the king, shaking his head slowly. 

“You said to me, ‘You love flowers. I will 
present to you a whole bouquet. I give you Little 
Trianon.’*'^ My dear sire ! you have given me 
not only a bouquet of flowers, but a bouquet of 
pleasant hours, of happy years, for which I thank 
you, and you alone.” 

' “ And may this bouquet never wither, Marie ! ” 
said the king, laying his hand as if in blessing on 
the head of his wife, and raising his good, blue 
eyes with a pious and prayerful look. “But, my 
good woman,” said he then, after a little pause, 
“ you quite let me forget the part I have to play, 
and the mill-wheel is standing still again, since 
the miller is not there. It is, besides, in wretched 
order, and it is full needful that I practise my art 

* The very words of the king. — See “ Memoire de Mar- 
quis de Crequy,” vol. iv. 


of blacksmith here a little, and put better screws 
and springs in the machine. But listen ! w'hat 
kind of song is that without ? ” 

“ Those are the peasants greeting us w”Ith their 
singing,” said the queen, smiling. “ Come, Mr. 
miller, let us show ourselves to them.” 

She drew the king out upon the small staircase. 
Directly at the foot of it stood the king’s two 
brothers, the Counts de Provence and Artois, as 
chief ofiucial and schoolmaster, and behind them 
the duchesses and princesses, dukes and counts, 
arrayed as peasants. In united chorus they 
greeted the mistress and the miller : 

Ou peut-on etre mieux, 

Qu'au sein de sa famille ? ” 

The queen smiled, and yet tears glittered in her 
eyes, tears of joy. 

Those w^ere happy hours which the royal pair 
spent that day in Trianon — hours of such bright 
sunshine that Marie Antoinette quite forgot the 
sad clouds of the morning, and gave herself un- 
disturbed to the enjoyment of this simple, coun- 
try life. They sat down to a country dinner — a 
slight, simple repast, brought together from the 
resources of the hen-coop, the mill, and the milk- 
room. Then the w-hole company w^ent out to lie 
dowm in the luxuriant grass which grew on the 
border of the little grove, and looked at the cows 
grazing before them on the meadow, and with 
stately dignity pursuing the serious occupation of 
chewing the cud. But as peasants have some- 
thing else to do than to live and enjoy, their mis- 
tress, Marie Antoinette, soon left her resting-place 
to set her people a good example in working. 
The splnning-vdieel wms brought and set upon a 
low stool ; Marie Antoinette began to spin. How 
quickly the wheel began to turn, as if it wmre the 
wheel of fortune — to-day bringing joy, and to- 
morrow calamity ! 

The evening has not yet come, and the wheel 
of fortune is yet turning, yet calamity is there. 

Marie Antoinette does not yet know it ; her 
eye still beams with joy, a happy smile still plays 
upon her rosy lips. She is sitting now with her 
company by the lake, with the hook in her hand, 


THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE. 


fsfiid looking with laughing face and fixed attention 
nt the rod, and crying aloud as often as she 
catches a fish. For these fishes are to serve as 
supper for the company, and the queen has cere- 
moniously invited her husband to an evening 
meal, which she herself will serve and prepare. 
The queen smiles still and is happy ; her spin- 

k 

ning-w^heel is silent, but the wheel of fate is mov- 
ing still. 

The king is no longer there. He has withdrawn 
into the mill to rest himself. 

And yet there he is not alone. Who ventures 
to disturb him ? It must be something very se- 
rious. For it is well known that the king very 
seldom goes to Trianon, and that when he is 
there he wishes to be entirely free from business. 

And yet he is disturbed to-day ; yet the pre- 
mier, Baron de Breteuil, is come to seek the mil- 
ler of Little Trianon, and to beseech him even 
there to be the king again. 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE queen’s necklace. 

Directly after a page, arrayed in the attire of 
a miller’s boy, had announced the Baron de Bre- 
teuil, the king withdrew into his chamber and re- 
sumed his own proper clothing. He drew on the 
long, gray coat, the short trousers of black velvet, 
the long, gold-embroidered waistcoat of gray sat- 
in ; and over this the bright, thin ribbon of the 
Order of Louis — the attire in which the king w^as 
accustomed to present himself on gala-days. 

With troubled, disturbed countenance, he then 
entered the little apartment where his chief min- 
ister, the Baron de Breteuil, was awaiting him. 

“Tell. me quickly,” ejaculated the king, “do 
you bring bad news ? Has any thing unexpected 
occurred ? ” 

“Sire,” answered the minister, respectfully, 
“ something unexpected at all events, but whether 
something bad will be learned after further inves- 
tigation.” 


27 • 

“Investigation!” criei the king. “Then do 
you speak of a crime ? ” 

“ Yes, sire, of a crime — the crime of a base 
deception, and, as it seems, of a defalcation in- 
volving immense sums and objects of great 
value.” 

“Ah,” said the king, with a sigh of relief, 

“ Then the trouble is only one of money.” 

“No, sire, it is one which concerns the honor 
of the queen.” • *. ’ 

Louis arose, while a burning flush of indigna- 
tion passed over his face. 

“ Will they venture again to assail the honor 
of the queen ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, sire,” answered Breteuil, wnth his invin- 
cible calmness — “ yes, sire, they will venture to 
do so. And at this time it is so infernal and 
deeply-laid a plan that it will be difficult to get at 
the truth. Will your majesty allow me to unfold 
the details of the matter somewhat fully ? ” 

“ Speak, baron, speak,” said the king, eagerly, 
taking his seat upon a wooden stool, and motion- 
ing to the m/nister to do the same. 

“Sire,” answered the premier, with a bow, ‘.‘I 
will venture to sit, because I am in fact a little 
exhausted with my quick run hither.” 

“ And is the matter so pressing? ” muttered the 
king, drawing out his tobacco-box, and in his im- 
patience rolling it between his fingers. 

“ Yes, very pressing,” answered Breteuil, tak- 
ing his seat. “ Does your majesty remember the 
beautiful necklace which the court jeweller, 
Bohmer, some time since had the honor to offer 
to your majesty ? ” 

“ Certainly, I remember it,” answered the king, 
quickly nodding. “ The queen showed herself on 
that occasion just as unselfish and magnanimous 
as she ahvays is. It v/as told me that her majes- 
ty had very much admired the necklace which 
Bohmer had showmd to her, and yet had declined 
to purchase it, because it seemed to her too dear. 

I -wanted to buy it and have the pleasure of of- 
fering it to the queen, but she decisively refused 
it.” 

“We well remember the beautiful answer 
which her majesty gave to her husband,” said 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


28 

Breteuil, gently bowing. “All Paris repeated 
with delight the words which her majesty uttered ; 
‘ Sire, we have more diamonds than ships. Buy 
a ship with this money ! ’ ” * 

“You have a good memory,” said the king, 
“ for it is five years since this happened. Bohmer 
has twice made the attempt since then to sell this 
costly necklace to me, but I have dismissed him, 
and at last forbidden him to allude to the matter 
again.” 

“ I believe that he has, meanwhile, ventured to 
trouble the queen several times about the neck- 
lace. It appears that he had almost persuaded 
himself that your majesty would purchase it. 
Years ago he caused stones to be selected through 
all Europe, wishing to make a necklace of dia- 
monds w^hich should be alike large, heavy, and 
brilliant. The queen refusing to give him his 
price of two million francs, he offered it at last 
for one million eight hundred thousand.” 

“ I have heard of that,” said the king. “ Her 
majesty was at last weary of the trouble, and 
gave command that the court jeweller, Bohmer, 
should not be admitted.” 

“Every time, therefore, that he came to Ver- 
sailles he was refused admittance. He then had 
recourse to writing, and two weeks ago her ma- 
jesty received from him a begging letter, in which 
he said that he should be very happy if, through 
his instrumentality, the queen could possess the 
finest diamonds in Europe, and imploring her ma- 
jesty not to forget her court jeweller. The queen 
read this letter, laughing, to her lady-in-waiting, 
Madame de Campan, and said it seemed as if the 
necklace had deprived the good Bohmer of his 
reason. But not wishing to pay any further at- 
tention to his letter or to answer it, she burned 
the paper in a candle which w^as accidentally 
standing on her table.” 

“ Good Heaven ! How do you know these de- 
tails ? ” asked the king, in amazement. 

“Sire, I have learned them from Madame de 
Campan herself, as I was compelled to speak 
with her about the necklace.” 

* “ Corrcspon dance Secrete de La Conr de Louis 
XVI.” 


“ But what is it about this necklace ? What 
has- the queen to do with that?” asked the 
king, wiping with a lace handkerchief the sweat 
which stood in great drops upon his lofty fore- 
head. 

“ Sire, the court jeweller, Bohmer, asserts that 
he sold the necklace of brilliants to the queen, 
and now desires to be paid.” 

“ The queen is right,” exclaimed the king, “ the 
man is out of his head. If he did sell the neck- 
lace to the queen, there must have been witnesses 
present to confirm it, and the keepers of her ' 
majesty’s purse would certainly know about it.” 

“ Sire, Bohmer asserts that the queen caused 
it to be bought of him in secret, through a third 
hand, and that this confidential messenger was 
empowered to pay down thirty thousand francs, 
and to promise two hundred thousand more;” 

“ What is the name of this confidential mes- 
senger ? What do they call him ? ” 

“ Sire,” answered the Baron de Breteuil, sol- 
emnly — “sire, it is the cardinal and grand al- 
moner of your majesty. Prince Louis de 
Rohan.” 

The king uttered a loud cry, and sprang quick- 
ly from his seat. 

“ Rohan ? ” asked he. “ And do they dare to 
bring this man whom the queen hates, whom she 
scorns, into relations with her ? Ha, Breteuil ! 
you can go ; the story is too foolishly put together 
for any one to believe it.” 

“Your majesty, Bohmer has, in the mean 
while, believed it, and has delivered the neck- 
lace to the cardinal, and received the queen’s 
promise to pay, written with her own hand.” 

“ Who says that ? How do you know all the 
details ? ” 

“ Sire, I know it by a paper of Bohmer’s, who 
wrote to me after trying in vain several times 
to see me. The letter was a tolerably confused 
one, and I did not understand it. But as he 
stated in it that the queen’s lady-in-waiting ad- 
vised him to apply to me as the minister of the 
royal house, I considered it best to speak with . 
Madame de Campan. What I learned of her is 
so important that I begged her to accompany 


THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE. 


29 


me to Trianon, and to repeat her statement be- 
fore your majesty.” 

“ Is Campan then in Trianon ? ” asked the 
king. 

“Yes, sire; and on our arrival we learned 
that Bohmer had just been there, and was most 
anxious to speak to the queen. He had been 
denied admission as always, and had gone away 
weeping and scolding.” 

“ Come,” said the king, “ let us go to Trianon ; 
I want to speak with Campan.” 

And wdth quick, rapid steps the king, followed 
by the minister Breteuil, left the mill, and, shun- 
ning the main road in order not to be seen by the 
queen, struck into the little side-path that led 
thither behind the houses. 

“ Campan,” said the king, hastily entering the 
little toilet-room of the queen, where the lady-in- 
waiting was — “ Campan, the minister hiis just 
been telling me a singular and incredible history. 
Yet repeat to me your last conversation with 
Bohmer.” 

“Sire,” replied Madame de Campan, bowing 
low, “ does your majesty command that I speak 
before the queen knows of the matter ? ” 

“Ah,” said the king, turning to the minister, 
“ you see I am right. The queen knows nothing 
of this, else she "would certainly have spoken to 
me about it. Thank God, the queen "withholds 
no secrets from me ! I thank you for your ques- 
tion, Campan. It is better that the queen be 
present at our interview. I will send for her to 
come here.” And the king hastened to the door, 
opened it, and called, “ Are any of the queen’s 
servants here ? ” 

The voice of the king w^as so loud and violent 
that the chamberlain. Weber, who was in the 
little outer antechamber, heard it, and at once 
rushed in. 

“Weber,” cried the king to him, “hasten at 
once to Little Trianon. Beg the queen, in my 
name, to have the goodness to come to the palace 
within a quarter of an hour, to consult about 
a weighty matter that allows no delay. But 
take care that the queen be not alarmed, and 
that she do not suspect that sad news has come 


regarding her family. Hasten, Weber ! And 
now, baron,” continued the king, closing the 
door, “ now you shall be convinced by your own 
eyes and ears that the queen will be as amazed 
and as little acquainted with all these things as I 
myself. I wish, therefore, that you would be 
present at the interview which I shall have with 
my wife and Campan, without the queen’s know- 
ing that you are near. You will be convinced at 
once in this "w^ay of the impudent and shameless 
deception that they have dared to play. Where 
does that door lead to, Campan ? ” asked the 
king, pointing to the white, gold-bordered door, 
at whose side two curtains of white satin, wrought 
"with roses, were secured. 

“ Sire, it leads to the small reception-room.” 

“ Will the queen pass that w'ay when she 
comes ? ” 

“No, your majesty, she is accustomed to take 
the same way which your majesty took, through 
the antechamber.” 

“ Good. Then, baron, go into the little saloon. 
Leave the door open, and do you, Campan, 
loosen the curtains and let them fall over the 
door, that the minister may hear without being 
seen.” 

A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed 
when the queen entered the toilet-chamber, with 
glowing cheeks, and under visible excitement. 
The king w^ent hastily to her, took her hand and 
pressed it to his lips. 

“Forgiveness, Marie, that I have disturbed you 
in the midst of your pleasures.” 

“Tell me, quickly,” cried the queen, impatient- 
ly. “ What is it ? Is it a great misfortune ? ” 

“ No, Marie, but a great annoyance, which is so 
far a misfortune in that the name of your ma- 
jesty is involved in a disagreeable and absurd 
plot. The court jeweller, Bohmer, asserts that 
he has sold a necklace to your majesty for one 
million eight hundred thousand francs.” 

“But the man is crazy,” cried the queen. 
“ Is that all your majesty had to say to me ? ” 

“I beg that Campan will repeat the conversa- 
tion which she had yesterday with Bohmer.” 

And the king beckoned with his hand to the 


30 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


lady-in-waiting, who, at the entrance of the queen, 
had modestly taken her seat at the back part of 
the room. 

“ How ! ” cried the queen, amazed, now first 
perceiving Campan. “ What do you here ? 
Wliat docs all this mean ? ” 

“ Four majesty, I came to Trianon to inform 
you about the conversation which I had yester- 
day with Bohmer. When I arrived I found he 
had just been here.” 

“ And what did he waiit ? ” cried the queen. 
“ Did you not tell me, Campan, that he no longer 
possesses this unfortunate necklace, with v/hich 
he has been making a martyr of me for years ? 
Did you not tell me that he had sold it to the 
Grand Sultan, to go to Constantinople ? ” 

“ T repeated to your majesty what Bohmer 
said to me. Meanwhile I beg now your gracious 
permission to repeat my to-day’s interview with 
Bohmer. Directly after your majesty had gone 
to Trianon with the Duchess de Polignac, the 
court jeweller Bohmer was announced. He came 
with visible disquiet and perplexity, and asked 
me whether your majesty had left no commission 
for him. I answered him that the queen had not 
done so, that in one wmrd she had no commis- 
sion for him, and that she was tired of his eternal 
pestering. ‘ But,’ said Bohmer, ‘ I must have an 
answer to the letter that I sent to her, and to 
wdiom must I apply ? ’ ‘To nobody,’ I answered. 
‘ Her majesty has burned your letter without 
reading it.’ ‘ Ah ! madame,’ cried he, ‘ that is 
impossible. The queen knows that she owes me 
money.’ ” 

“ I owe him money ! ” cried tlie queen, horrified. 
“ How can the miserable man dare to assert such 
a thing ? ” 

“ That I said to him, your majesty, but he an- 
swered, with complete self-possession, that your 
majesty owed him a million and some five hundred 
thousand francs, and when I asked him in com- 
plete amazement for what articles your majesty 
ow’ed him such a monstrous sum, he answered, 
‘ Eor my necklace.’ ” 

“ This miserable necklace again ! ” exclaimed 
the queen. “ It seems as if the man made it 


only 'to make a martyr of me wnth it. Year after 
year I hear perpetually about this necklace, and 
it has been quite in vain that, with all my care 
and good-will, I have sought to drive from him 
this fixed idea that I must buy it. He is so far 
gone in his illusion as to assert that I have 
bought it.” 

“ Madame, this man is not insane,” said the 
king, seriously. “ Listen further. Go on. Cam- 
pan.” ' 

“ I laughed,” continued Madame de Campan, 
“ and asked him how he could assert such a 
thing, ’when he told me only a few months ago 
that he had sold the necklace to the Sultan. 
Then he replied that the queen had ordered him 
to give this ans’t\nr to every one that asked about 
the necklace. Then he told me further, that your 
majesty had secretly bought the necklace, and 
through the instrumentality of the Lord Cardinal 
de Rohan.” 

“ Through Rohan ? ” cried the queen, rising ; 
“ Through the man whom I hate and despise ? 
And is there a man in France wdio can believe 
this, and v/ho does not know that the cardinal is 
the one who stands the lowest in my favor ! ” 

“ I said to Mr. Bohmer — I said to him that he 
w'as deceived, that the queen would never make 
a confidant of Cardinal Rohan, and he made me 
this very answer : ‘You deceive yourself, mad- 
ame. The cardinal stands so high in favor, and 
maintains such confidential relations with her 
majesty, that she had sent, through his hands, 
thirty thousand francs as a first payment. The 
queen took this money in the presence of the 
cardinal, from the little secretary of Sevres porce- 
lain, which stands near to the chimney in her 
boudoir.’ ‘ And did the cardinal really say that ? ’ I 
asked ; and when he reaffirmed it, I told him that 
he was deceived. He now began to be very much 
troubled, and said, ‘ Good Heaven ! what if you 
are right, what if I am deceived ! There has 
already a suspicion come to me ; the cardinal 
promised me that on Yfhitsunday the queen 
would w'car the collar, and she did not do so ; so 
this determined me to write to her.’ When now, 
full of anxiety, he asked what advice I could give 


THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE. 


31 


him. I at once bade him go to Lord Breteuil and 
tell him all. He promised to do so, and went. 
Blit I hastened to come hither to tell your majesty 
the v.diole story, but when I arrived I found the 
unhappy jeweller already here, and he only v/ent 
away after I gave him my promise to speak to-day 
with your majesty.” 

The queen had at the outset listened with speech- 
less amazement, and as Campan approached the 
close of her communication, her eyes opened wider 
and wider. She had stood as rigid as a statue. 
But now all at once life and animation took pos- 
session of this statue ; a glowing purple-red dif- 
fused itself over her cheeks, and directing her 
eyes, which blazed with wonderful fire, to the 
king, she said, with a loud and commanding 
voice, “ Sire, you have heard this story. Your 
wife is accused, and the queen is even charged 
with having a secret understanding with Cardinal 
Bohan. I desire an investigation — a rigid, strict 
investigation. Call at once. Lord Breteuil, that 
we may take counsel with him. But I insist upon 
having this doiie.” 

“ And your will is lav/, madame,” said the king, 
directing an affectionate glance at the excited face 
of the queen. “ Come out, Breteuil ! ” 

And as between the curtains appeared the 
serious, sad face of the minister, the king turned 
to his wife and said : “ I wished that he might be 
a secret witness of this interview, and survey the 
position which you should take in this matter.” 

“ Oh, sire ! ” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, ex- 
tending her hand to him, “ so you did not for an 
instant doubt my innocence ? ” 

“No, truly, not a moment,” answered the king, 
with a smile. “ But now come, madame, we will 
consider with Breteuil what is to be done, and 
then we will summon the Abbe de Yiermont, that 
he may take part in our deliberations.” 

On the next day, the 15th of August, a bril- 
liant, select company was assembled in the sa- 
loons of Versailles. It was a great holiday. As-, 
cension-day, and the king and the queen, with the 
entire court, intended to be present at the mass, 
which the cardinal and the grand almoner would 
celebrate in the chapel. 


The entire brilliant court was assembled ; the 
cardinal arrayed in his suitable apparel, and wear- 
ing all the tokens of his rank, had entered the 
great reception-room, and only awaited the arrival 
of the royal pair, to lead them into the church. 
The fine and much-admu’ed face of the cardinal 
wore to-day a beaming expression, and his great 
black eyes were continually directed, while he was 
talking with the Duke de Conti and the Count d’- 
Artois, toward the door through which the royal 
couple would enter. All at once the portal opened, 
a royal page stepped in and glanced searchingly 
around ; and seeing the tow^ering figure of the 
cardinal in the middle of the hall, he at once ad- 
vanced through the glittering company, and ap- 
proached the cardinal. “ Monseigneur,” he whis- 
pered to him, “ his majesty is awmiting your emi- 
nence’s immediate appearance in the cabinet.” 

The cardinal broke off abruptly his conversa- 
tion with Lord Conti, hurried through the hall and 
entered the cabinet. 

No one was there except the king and queen, 
and in the background of the apartment, in the 
recess formed by a window, the premier, Baron 
Breteuil, the old and irreconcilable enemy of the 
proud cardinal, who in this hour would have his 
reward for his year-long and ignominious treat- 
ment of the prince. 

The cardinal had entered with a confident, dig- 
nified bearing ; but the cold look of the king 
and the flaming eye of the queen appeared to 
confuse him a little, and his proud eye sank to 
the ground. 

“ You have been buying diamonds of Bohmer,” 
asked the king, brusquely. 

“ Yes, sire,” answered the cardinal. 

“ What have you done with them ? Answer 
me, I command you.” 

“ Sire,” said the cardinal, after a pause, “ I 
supposed that they were given to the queen.” 

“ Who intrusted you with this commission ? ” 

“ Sire, a lady named Countess Lamotte- Valois. 
She gave me a letter from her majesty, and I be- 
lieved that I should be doing the queen a favor if 
I should undertake the care of the commission 
which the queen had the grace to intrust to me.” 


S 2 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


a 1 1 » cried the queen, with an expression of in- 
tense scorn, “should I intrust you with a com- 
mission in my behalf? I, who for eight years 
have never deigned to bestow a word upon you ? 
And I should employ such a person as you, a 
beggar of places ? ” 

“ I see plainly,” cried the cardinal, “ I see 
plainly that some one has deceived you grievously 
about me. I will pay for the necklace. The 
earnest wish to please your majesty has blinded 
your eyes regarding me. I have planned no de- 
ception, and am now bitterly undeceived. But I 
will pay for the necklace,” 

“ And you suppose that that ends all ! ” said the 
queen, with a burst of anger. “ You think that, 
with the pitiful paying for the brilliants, you can 
atone for the disgrace which you have brought 
upon your queen ? No, no, sir ; I desire a rigid 
investigation. I insist upon it that all who 
have taken part in this ignominious deception 
be brought to a relentless investigation. Give 
me the proofs that you have been deceived, and 
that you are not much rather the deceiver.” 

“Ah, madame,” cried the cardinal, with a look 
at once so full of reproach and confidence, that 
the queen fairly shook with anger. “ Here are 
the proofs of my innocence,” continued he, draw- 
ing a small portfolio from his pocket, and taking 
from it a folded paper. “ There is the letter of 
the queen to the Countess Lamotte, in which 
her majesty empowered me to purchase the dia- 
monds.” 

The king took the paper, looked over it hastily, 
read the signature, and gave it, with a suspicious 
shrug of the shoulders, to his wife. 

The queen seized the letter with the wild fury 
of a tigress, which has at last found its prey, and 
with breathless haste ran over the paper. Then 
she broke out into loud, scornful laughter, and, 
pointing to the letter, she looked at the cardinal 
with glances of flame. 

“ That is not my handwriting — that is not my 
signature ! ” cried she, furiously. “ How are you, 
sir, a prince and grand almoner of France — how 
are you so ignorant, so foolish, as to believe that 
I could subscribe myself ‘ Marie Antoinette of 


France?’ Everybody knows that queens write 
only their baptismal names as signatures, and 
you alone have not known that ? ” 

“ I see into it,” muttered the cardinal, pale 
under the look of the queen, and so weak that he 
had to rest upon the table for support, “I see 
into it ; I have been dreadfully deceived.” 

The king took a paper from his table and gave 
it to the cardinal. “ Do you confess that you 
wrote this letter to Bohmer, in which you send 
him thirty thousand francs in behalf of the queen, 
in part payment for the necklace ? ” 

“ Yes, sire, I confess it,” answered the cardinal, 
with a low voice, which seemed to contradict what 
he uttered. 

“He confesses it,” cried the queen, gnashing 
her teeth, and making up her little hand into a 
clinched fist. “ He has held me fit for such in- 
famy — me, his queen !” 

“You assert that you bought the jewels for the 
queen. Did you deliver them in person ? ” 

“No, sire, the Countess Lamotte did that.” 

“ In your name, cardinal ? ” 

“ Yes, in my name, sire, and she gave at the 
same time a receipt to the queen for one hundred 
and fifty thousand francs, which I lent the queen 
tow^ard the purchase.” 

“ And what reward did you have from the 
queen ? ” 

The cardinal hesitated ; then, as he felt the an- 
gry, cold, and contemning look of the queen rest- 
ing upon him, the red blood mounted into his 
face, and with a withering glance at Marie Antoi- 
nette, he said : 

“You wish, madame, that I should speak the - 
whole truth ! Sire, the queen rewarded me for 
this little work of love in a manner worthy of a 
queen. She granted me an appointment in the 
park of Versailles.” 

At this new and fearful charge, the queen cried 
aloud, and, springing forward like a tigress, she 
seized the arm of her husband and shook it. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ listen to this high traitor, 
bringing infamy upon a queen ! Will you bear 
it ? Can his purple protect the villain ? ” 

“No, it cannot, and it shall not I” cried the 


ENEMIES AND FRIENDS. 


33 


king. “ Rreteiiil, do jour duty. And you, cardi- 
nal, who venture to accuse your queen, to scanda- 
lize the good name of the wife of your king, go.” 

“ Sire,” stammered the cardinal, “ sire, I — ” 

“ Not a word,” interrupted the king, raising his 
hand and pointing toward the door, “ out, I say, 
out with you ! ” 

The cardinal staggered to the door, and entered 
the hall filled with a glittering throng, who vrere 
still whispering, laughing, and walking to and fro. 

But hardly had he advanced a few steps, when 
behind him, upon the threshold of the royal cabi- 
net, appeared the minister Breteuil. 

“ Lieutenant,” cried Breteuil, with a loud voice, 
turnine: to the officer in command of the guard, 
“ lieutenant, in the name of the king, arrest the 
Cardinal de Rohan, and take him under escort to 
the Bastile.” 

A general cry of horror followed these words, 
which rolled like a crashing thunder-clap through 
the careless, coquetting, and unsuspecting com- 
pany. Then followed a breathless silence. 

All eyes were directed to the cardinal, who, 
pale as death, and yet maintaining his noble car- 
riage, walked along at ease. 

At this point a young officer, pale like the car- 
dinal, like all in fict, approached the great eccle- 
siastic, and gently took his arm. 

“Cardinal,” said he, with sorrowful tone, “in 
the name of the king, I arrest your eminence. I 
am ordered, monseigneur, to conduct you to the 
Bastile.” 

“ Come, ‘then, my son,” answered the cardinal, 
quickly, making his v/ay slowly through the throng, 
which respectfully opened to let him pass — 
“ come, since the king commands it, let us go to 
the Bastile.” 

He passed on to the door. But when the offi- 
cer had opened it, he turned round once more to 
the hall. Standing erect, with all the exalted dig- 
nity of his station and his person, he gave the 
amazed company his blessing. 

Then the door closed behind him, and wdth pale 
faces the lords and ladies of the court dispersed 
to convey the horrible tidings to Yersailles and 
Paris, that the king had caused the cardinal, the 


grand almoner of France, to be arrested in his 
official robes, and that it was the will of the 
queen. 

And the farther the tidings rolled the more the 
report enlarged, like an avalanche of calumnies. 

In the evening, Marat thundered in his club : 
“ Woe, woe to the Austrian ! She borrowed 
money of the Cardinal de Rohan to buy jewels 
for herself — jewels while the people hungered. 
Now, when the cardinal wants his money, the 
queen denies having received the money, and lets 
the head of the Church be dragged to the Bastile. 
Woe, woe to the Austrian ! ” 

“Woe, woe to the Austrian!” muttered 
brother Simon, who sat near the platform on 
which Marat was. “ We shall not forget it that 
she buys her jewels for millions of francs, wffiile 
we have not a sou to buy bread with. Woe to 
the Austrian 1 ” 

And all the men of the club raised their fists 
and muttered with him, “Woe to the Austrian ! ” 


CHAPTER Y. 

ENEMIES AND FRIENDS. 

All Paris was in an uproar and in motion i\ 
all the streets ; the people assembled in immensv 
masses at all the squares, and listened with abateo 
breath to the speakers who had taken their stand 
amid the groups, and vffio were confirming the 
astonished hearers respecting the great news of 
the day. 

“ The Lord Cardinal de Rohan, the grand al- 
moner of the king,” cried a Franciscan monlr, 
who had taken his station upon a curbstone, at 
the corner of the Tuileries and the great Place de 
Carrousel^ — “ Cardinal de Rohan has in a despotic 
manner been deprived of his rights and his free- 
dom. As a dignitary of the Church, he is not 
under the ordinary jurisdiction, and only the Pope 
is the rightful lord of a cardinal ; only before the 
Holy Father can an accusation be brought against 
a servant of the Church. For it has been the law 


3 


34 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


of the Church for centuries that it alone has the 
power to punish and accuse its servants, and no 
one has ever attempted to challenge that power. 
But do you know what has taken place ? Cardi- 
nal de Rohan has been withdrawn from the juris- 
diction of his rightful judges ; he has been denied 
an ecclesiastical tribunal, and he is to be tried be- 
fore Parliament as if he were an ordinary servant 
of the king ; secular judges are going to sit in 
judgment upon this great church dignitary, and 
to charge him wdth a crime, when no crime has 
been committed ! For what has he done, the 
grand almoner of France, cardinal, and cousin of 
the king ? A lady, whom he believed to be in 
the queen’s confidence, had told him that the 
queen wanted to procure a set of jewels, which 
she was unfortunately not able to buy, because 
her coffers, as a natural result of her well-known 
extravagance, were empty. The lady indicated 
to the lord cardinal that the queen wmuld be de- 
lighted if he would advance a sum sufScient to 
buy the jewels with, and in his name she would 
cause the costly fabric to be purchased. The car- 
dinal, all the while a devoted and true servant 
of the king, hastened to gratify the desire of 
the queen. He took this course with wise pre- 
caution, in order that the queen, whose violence 
Is well known, should not apply to any other 
member of the court, and still further compro- 
mise the royal honor. And say yourselves, my 
noble friends, was it not much better that it 
should be the lord cardinal who should lend 
money to the queen, than Lord Lauzun, Count 
Coign y, or the musical Count Yaudrcuil, the spe- 
cial favorite of the queen? Was it not better 
for, him to make this sacrifice and do the queen 
this great favor ? ” 

“Certainly it was better,” cried the mob. 
“ The lord cardinal is a noble man. Long live 
Cardinal de Rohan ! ” 

“ Perish the Austrian, perish the jewelled 
queen ! ” cried the cobbler Simon, who was stand- 
ing amid the crowd, and a hundred voices mut- 
tered after him, “ Perish the Austrian ! ” 

“ Listen, my dear people of Paris, you good- 
natured lambs, whose wool is plucked off that the 


Austrian woman may have a softer bed,” cried a 
shrieking voice; “ hear what has occurred to-day. 
I can tell you accurately, for I have just come 
from Parliament, and a good friend of mine has 
copied for me the address with which the king is 
going to open the session to-day.” 

“ Read it to us,” cried the crowd. “ Keep quiet 
there — keep still there! We want to hear the 
address. Read it to us.” 

“ I will do it gladly, but you will not be able to 
understand me,” shrieked the voice. “ I am only 
little in comparison with you, as every one is lit- 
tle who opposes himself to the highest majesty of 
the earth, the people.” 

“Hear that,” cried one of those who s-tood 
nearest to those a little farther away — “ hear 
tlmt, he calls us majesties 1 He seems to be an 
excellent gentleman, and he does not look down 
upon us.” 

“Did you ever hear of a wise man looking 
down upon the prince royal, who is young, fair, 
and strong ? ” asked the barking voice. 

“He is right, we cannot understand him,” cried 
those who stood farthest away, pressing forward. 
“ Yfhat did he say ? He must repeat bis words. 
Lift him up so that we all may hear him.” 

A broad-shouldered, gigantic citizen, in good 
clothing, and wdth an open, spirited countenance, 
and a bold, defiant bearing, pressed through the 
crowd to the neighborhood of the speaker. 

“ Come, little man,” cried he, “I will raise you 
up on my shoulder, and — but see, it is our friend 
Marat, the little man, but the great doctor! ” 

“ And you truly, you are my friend Santerre, 
the great man and the greatest of doctors. For 
the beer which you get from his brewery is a bet- 
ter medicine for the people than all my electuaries 
can be. And you, my worthy friend of the hop- 
pole, will you condescend to take the ugly monkey 
Marat on your shoulders, that he may tell the 
people the great news of the day ? ” 

Instead of answering, the brewer Santerre 
seized the little crooked man by both arms, 
swung him up with giant strength, and set him 
on his shoulders. 

The people, delighted with the dexterity and 


ENEMIES AND FRIENDS. 


35 


etrength of tlie herculean man, broke into a 
loud cheer, and' ipplauded the brewer, whom 
ail knew, and who was a popular personage in 
the city. But Marat, too, the horse-doctor of 
the Count d’Artois, as he called himself derisive- 
ly, the doctor of poverty and misfortune, as his 
flatterers termed him — Marat, too, was known to 
many in the throng, and after Santerre had been 
applauded, they saluted Marat with a loud vivat^ 
and with boisterous clapping of hands. 

He turned his distorted, ugly visage toward the 
Tuileries, whose- massive proportions towered up 
above the lofty trees of the gardens, and with a 
threatening gesture shook his fist at the royal 
palace. 

“Have you heard it, you proad gods of the 
earth ? Have you heard the sacred thunder mut- 
terings of majesty ? Are you not startled from 
the sleep of your vice, and compelled to fall upon 
your knees and pray, as poor sinners do before 
their judgment ? But no. You do not see and 
you do not hear. Your ears are deaf and your 
hearts are sealed ! Behind the lofty walls of Ver- 
sailles, which a most vicious king erected for his 
menus plaisirs, there you indulge in your lusts, 
and shut out the voice of truth, which would speak 
to you here in Paris from the hallowed lips of the 
people.” 

“ Long live Marat ! ” cried the cobbler Simon, 
who, drawn by the shouting, had left the Francis- 
can, and joined the throng in whose midst stood 
Santerre, with Marat on his shoulders. “ Long 
live the great friend of the people! Long live 
Marat ! ” 

“Long live Marat!” cried and muttered the 
people. “ Marat heals the people when the gen- 
try have made them sick, and taken the very mar- 
row from their bones. Marat is no ‘ gentleman.’ 
Marat does not look down upon the people ! ” 

“ My friends, I repeat to you what I said be- 
fore,” shrieked Marat. “ Did you ever hear of a 
wise man looking down upon the crown prince, 
and thinking more of the king, who is old, un- 
nerved by his vices, and blase I You, the peo- 
ple, you are the crown prince of France, and if 
you, at" last, in your righteous and noble indigna- 


tion, tread the tyrant under your feet, then the 
young prince, the people, will rule over France-, 
and the beautiful words of the Bible will be ful- 
filled : ‘ There shall be one fold and one shep- 
herd.’ I have taken this improvised throne on 
the shoulders of a noble citizen only to tell you 
of an impropriety which the Queen of France has 
committed, and of the new usurpation with which 
she treads our laws under her feet, not tired out 
with opera-house balls and promenades by night. 

I will read you the address which the king sent to 
Parliament to-day, and with which the hearing 
of Cardinal de Rohan’s case is to begin. 'Will the 
people hear it ? ” 

“ Yes, we will hear it,” v/as the cry from aU 
sides. “ Read us the address.” 

Marat drew a dirty piece of paper from his 
pocket, and began to read with a loud, barking 
voice : 

“ Louis, by the grace of God, King of France 
and Navarre, to our dear and fiiithful counsellers, 
members of the court of our Parliament, greet- 
ing: 

“ It has come to our knowledge that parties 
named Bohmer and Bassenge have, without the 
knowledge of the queen, our much-loved con- 
sort and spouse, sold a diamond necklace, 
valued at one million six hundred thousand 
francs, to Cardinal de Rohan, who stated to them 
that he was acting in the matter under the 
queen’s instructions. Papers were laid before 
them wdiich they considered as approved and sub- 
scribed by the queen. After the said Bohmer 
and Bassenge had delivered the said necklace to 
the said cardinal, and had not received the first 
payment, they applied to the queen herself. Wo 
have beheld, not without righteous indignation, the 
eminent name, which in many ways is so dear to 
us, lightly spoken of, and denied the respect which 
is due to the royal majesty. We have thought 
that it pertains to the jurisdiction of our court to 
give a hearing to the said cardinal, and in view 
of the declaration which he has made before us, 
that he was deceived by a woman named Lamotte- 
Yalois, we have held it necessary to secure hia 
person, as well as that of Madame Valois, in or- 




MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


der to bring all the parties to light who have been 
the instigators or abettors of such a plot. It is 
our will, therefore, that that matter come before 
the high court of Parliament, and that it be duly 
tried and judgment given.” 

“ There you have this fine message,” cried 
Marat ; “ there you have the web of his, which this 
Austrian woman has woven around us. For it is 
she who has sent this message to Parliament. 
You know well that we have no longer a King of 
France, but that all France is only the Trianon of 
the Austrian. It stands on all our houses, writ- 
ten over all the doors of government buildings, 

♦ De par la reine ! ’ The Austrian woman is the 
Queen of France, and the good-natured king only 
writes what she dictates to him. She says in this 
paper that these precautions have been taken in 
order that she may learn who are the persons who 
have joined in the attack upon her distinguished 
and much-loved person. Who, then, is the abettor 
of Madame Yalois ? Who has received the dia- 
monds from the cardinal, through the instru- 
mentality of Madame Yalois? I assert, it is the 
queen who has done it. She received the jewels, 
and now she denies the whole story. And now 
this woman Laneotte-Yalois must draw the hot 
chestnuts out from the ashes. You know this ; so 
it always is ! Kings may go unpunished, they 
always have a bke de souffrance^ which has to 
bear their burdens. But now that a cardinal, the 
grand almoner of France, is compelled to become 
the hete de souffrance for this Austrian woman, 
must show you, my friends, that her arrogance 
has reached its highest point. She has trodden 
modesty and morals under foot, and now she will 
tread the Church under foot also.” 

, “Be still!” was the cry on all sides. “The 
carbineers and gendarmes are coming. Be still, 
Marat, be still ! You must not be arrested. We 
do not want all our friends to be taken to the 
Bastile.” 

And really just at that instant, at the entrance 
of the street that led to the square on the side of 
the Tuileries, appeared a division of carbineers, 
advancing at great speed. 

Marat jumped with the speed of a cat down from 


the huge form of the brewer. The crowd opened 
and made way for him, and before the carbineers 
had approached, Marat had disappeared. 

With this day began the investigations respect- 
ing the necklace which Messrs. Bohmer and Bas- 
senge had wanted to sell the queen through the 
agency of Cardinal Rohan. The latter was still a 
prisoner in the Bastile. He was treated with all 
the respect due to his rank. He had a whole 
suite of apartments assigned to him ; he was al- 
lowed to retain the service of both his chamber- 
lains, and at times was permitted to see and con- 
verse with his relatives, although, it is true, in the 
presence of the governor of the Bastile. But 
Foulon Avas a very pious Catholic, and kept a 
respectful distance from the lord cardinal, who 
never failed on such occasions to give him his 
blessing. In the many hearings which the cardi- 
nal had to undergo, the president of the committee 
of investigation treated him with extreme consid- 
eration, and if the cardinal felt himself wearied, 
the sitting was postponed till another day. More- 
over, at these hearings the defender of the cardi- 
nal could take part, in order to summon those 
witnesses or accused persons who could contribute 
to the release of the cardinal, and show that he 
had been the victim of a deeply-laid plot, and 
had committed no other wrong than that of being 
too zealous in the service of the queen. 

News spread abroad of numerous arrests occur- 
ring in Paris. It had been knoAvn from the royal 
decree that the Countess Lamotte-Yalois had like- 
Avise been arrested and imprisoned in the Bastile ; 
but people were anxious to learn decisively Avhetli- 
er Count Cagliostro, the Avonder-doctor, had been 
seized. The story ran that a young woman in 
Brussels, Avho had been involved in the affair, 
and who had an extraordinary resemblance to the 
Queen Marie Antoinette, had been arrested, and 
brought to Paris for confinement in the Bastile. 

All Paris, all France watched this contest with 
eager interest, which, after many months, was 
still far from a conclusion, and respecting Avhich 
so much could be said. 

The friends of the queen asserted that her ma- 
jesty Avas completely innocent; that she had 


ENEMIES AND FRIENDS. 


37 


never spoken to the Countess Lamotte-Valois, 
and only once through her chamberlain. Weber 
had never sent her any assistance. But these 
friends of the queen were not numerous, and their 
number diminished every day. 

The king had seen the necessity of making 
great reductions in the cost of maintaining his 
establishment, and in the government of the 
realm. France had had during the last years 
poor liarvests. The people were suffering from 
a want of the bare necessities of life. The taxes 
could not be collected. A reform must be intro- 
duced, and those who before had rejoiced in a 
superfluity of royal gifts had to be contented 
with a diminution of them. 

It had been the queen who allowed the tokens 
of royal favor to pour upon her friends, her com- 
panions in Trianon, like a golden rain. She had 
at the outset done this out of a hearty love for 
them. It was so sweet to cause those to rejoice 
whom she loved ; so pleasant to see that charm- 
ing smile upon the countenance of the Duchess 
de Polignac — that, smile which only appeared 
when she had succeeded in making others happy. 
For herself the duchess never asked a favor ; her 
royal friend could only, after a long struggle and 
threatening her with her displeasure, induce her 
to take the gifts which were offered out of a really 
loving heart. 

But behind the Duchess Diana stood her broth- 
er and sister-in-law, the Duke and Duchess de 
Polignac, who were ambitious, proud, and avari- 
cious ; behind the Duchess Diana stood the three 
favorites of the royal society in Trianon — Lords 
Vaudreuil, Besenval, D’Adhemar— Avho desired 
embassies, ministerial posts, orders, and other 
tokens of honor.^ 

Diana de Polignac was the channel through 
whom all these addressed themselves to the 
queen; she was the loved friend who asked 
whether the queen could not grant their de- 
mands. Louis granted all the requests to the 
queen, and Marie Antoinette then went to her 
loved friend Diana, in order to gratify her wishes, 
to receive a kiss, and to be rewarded with a 
smile. 


The great noble families saw with envy and 
displeasure this supremacy of the Polignacg 
and the favorites of Trianon. They withdrew 
from the court ; gave the “ Queen of Trianon ” 
over to her special friends and their citizen pleas- 
ures and sports, which, as they asserted, were not 
becoming to the great nobility. They gave the 
king over to his wife who ruled through him, and 
who, in turn, was governed by the Polignacs and 
the other favorites. To them and to their friends 
belonged all places, all honors ; to them all ap- 
plied who wanted to gain any thing for the court, 
and even they who wanted to get justice done 
them. 

Around the royal pair there was nothing but 
intrigues, cabals, envy, and hostility. Every one 
wanted to be first in the favor of the queen, in 
order to gain influence and consideration ; every 
one wanted to cast suspicion on the one v/ho was 
next to him, in order to supplant him in the favor 
of Marie Antoinette. 

The fair days of fortune and peace, of which 
the queen dreamed in her charming country home, 
thinking that her realizations were met w^hen the 
sun had scarcely risen upon them, were gone. 
Trianon was still there, and the happy peasant- 
girl of Trianon had been unchanged in heart ; but 
those to whom she had given her heart, those 
who had joined in her harmless amusement in her 
village there, were changed ! They had cast aside 
the idyllic masks with which the good-natured 
and confiding queen had deceived herself. They 
were no longer friends, no longer devoted ser- 
vants; they were mere place-hunters, intriguers, 
flatterers, not acting out of love, but out of self- 
ishness. 

Yet the queen would not believe this ; she con- 
tinued to be the tender friend of her friends, 
trusted them, depended upon their love, was 
happy in their neighborhood, and let herself 
be led by them just as the kinglet himself be 
led by her. 

They set ministers aside, appointed new ones, 
placed their favorites in places of power, and 
drove their opponents into obscurity. 

But there came a day when the queen began to 


38 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


see that she was not the ruler but the ruled, — 
when she saw that she was not acting out her 
own will, but was tyrannized over by those who 
had been made powerful through her favor. 

“ I have been compelled to take part in politi- 
cal affairs,” said she, “because the king, in his 
noble, good-humored way, has too little confidence 
in himself, and, out of his self-distrust, lets him- 
self be controlled by the opinions of others. And 
so it is best that I should be his first confidante, 
and that he should take me to be his chief ad- 
viser, for his interests are mine, and these chil- 
dren are mine, and surely no one can speak more 
truly and honestly to the King of France than his 
queen, his wife, the mother of his children ! And 
so if Hie king is not perfectly independent, and 
feels himself too weak to stand alone, and inde- 
pendently to exert power, he ought to rest on me; 
I will bear a part in his government, his business, 
that at any rate they who control be not my op- 
ponents, my enemies ! ” 

For a while she yielded to her friends and 
favorites who wanted to stand in the same rela- 
tion to the queen that she did to the king — she 
yielded, not like Louis, from weakness, but from 
the very power of her love for them. 

She yielded at the time when Diana de Polig- 
nac, urged by her brother-in-law, Polignac, and 
by Lord Besenval, conjured the queen to nomi- 
nate Lord Calonne to be general comptroller of 
the finances. She yielded, and Calonne, the flat- 
terer, the courtier of Polignac, received the im- 
portant appointment, although Marie Antoinette 
experienced twinges of conscience for it, and did 
not trust the man whom she herself advanced to 
this high place.- Public opinion, meanwhile, gave 
out that Lord Calonne was a favorite of the 
queen ; and, while she bore him no special favor, 
and considered his appointment as a misfortune 
to France, she who herself promoted him became 
the object of public indignation. 

Meanwhile the nomination of Lord Calonne was 
to be productive of real good. It gave rise to the 
publication of a host of libels and pamphlets 
which discussed the financial condition of France, 
and, in biting and scornful words, in the language 


of sadness and despair, developed the need and 
the misfortune of the land. The king gave the 
chief minister of police strict injunctions to send 
him all these ephemeral publications. lie wanted 
to read them all, wanted to find the kernel of 
wheat which each contained, and, from his ene- 
mies, who assuredly would not flatter, he wanted 
to learn how to be a good king. And the first 
of his cares he saw to be a frugal king, and to 
limit his household expenses. 

This time he acted independently ; he asked no 
one’s counsel, not even the queen’s. As his own 
unconstrained act, he ordered a diminution of the 
court luxury, and a limitation of the great pen- 
sions which were paid to favorites. The great 
stable of the king must be reduced, the chief direc- 
torship of the post bureau must be abolished, the 
high salary of the governess of the royal children 
as well as that of the maid of honor of Madame 
Elizabeth, sister of the king, must be reduced. 

And who were the ones affected by this ? 
Chiefly the Polignac family. The Duke de 
Polignac was director of the royal mews, and 
next to him the Duke de Coigny. The Duke de 
Polignac was also chief director of the post de- 
partment. His wife, Diana de Polignac, was also 
maid of honor to Madame Elizabeth, and Julia 
de Polignac was governess of the children of 
France. 

They would not believe it ; they held it impos- 
sible that so unheard-of a thing .should happen, 
that their income should be reduced. The whole 
circle of intimate friends resorted to Trianon, to 
have an interview with the queen, to receive from 
her the assurance that she would not tolerate 
such a robbing of her friends, and that she 
would induce the king to take back his com- 
mands. 

The queen, however, for the first time, made a 
stand against her friends. 

“ It is the will of the king,” said she, “ and I 
am too happy that the king has a will, to 
dare opposing it. ' May the king reign ! It is his 
duty and his right, as it is the duty and right of 
all his subjects to conform to his wish and be sub- 
ject to his wiU.” 


ENEMIES AND FRIENDS. 


39 


“ But,” cried Lord Besenval, “ it is horrible to 
live in a country where one is not sure but he 
-may lose to-morrow what he holds to-day ; down 
to this time that has always been the Turkish 
fashion.”* 

The queen trembled and raised her great eyes 
with a look full of astonishment and pain to Be- 
senval, then to the other friends ; she read upon 
all faces alienation and unkindly feeling. The 
mask of devoted courtiers and true servants had 
for the first time fallen from their faces, and Ma- 
rie Antoinette discovered these all at once wholly 
estranged and unknown countenances ; eyes with- 
out the beam of friendship, lips without the smile 
of devotion. 

The queen sought to put her hand to her heart ; 
it seemed to her as if she had been wounded with 
a dagger. She felt as if she must cry aloud with 
pain and grief. But she commanded herself and 
only gave utterance to a faint sigh. 

“You are not the only ones who will lose, my 
friends,” said she, gently. “ The king is a loser, 
too ; for if he gives up the great stables, he sacri- 
fices to the common good his horses, his equipa- 
ges, and, above all, his true servants. We must 
all learn to put up v/ith limitations ani a reduc- 
tion of outlay. But we can still remain good 
friends, and here in Trianon pass many pleasant 
days with one another in harmless gayety and 
happy contentment. Come, my friends, let us 
forget these cares and these constraints ; let us, 
despite all these things, be merry and glad. Duke 
de Coigny, you have been for a week my debtor 
in billiards, to-day you must make it up. Come, 
my friends, let us go into the billiard-room”* 

And the queen, who had found her gayety 
again, went laughing in advance of her friends 
into the next apartment, where the billiard-table 
stood. She took up her cue, and, brandishing it 
like a sceptre, cried, “ Now, my friends, away with 
care — ” 

She ceased, for as she looked around her she 
saw that her friends had not obeyed her call. 
Only the Duke de Coigny, whom she had specially 

* Ilis very words. See Goncourt’s “ Histoire de Marie 
Antoinette,” p. 121. 


summoned, had followed the queen into the bil- 
liard-room. 

A flash of anger shot from the eyes of tin? 
queen. 

“ How ! ” cried she, aloud, “ did my companions 
not hear that I commanded them to follow me 
hither ? ” 

“ Your majesty,” answered the Duke de Coig- 
ny, peevishly, “ the ladies and gentlemen have 
probably recalled the fact that your majesty once 
made it a rule here in Trianon that every one 
should do as he pleases, and your majesty sees 
that they hold more strictly to the laws than 
others do.” 

My lord,” sighed the queen, “do you bring 
reproaches against me too ? Are you also dis- 
contented ? ” 

“ And why should I be contented, your majes- 
ty ? ” asked the duke, with choler. “ I am de- 
prived of a post which hitherto has been held for 
life, and does your majesty desire that I should 
be contented ? No, I am not contented. No, I 
do as the others do. I am full of anger and pain 
to see that nothing is secure more, that nothing 
is stable more, that one can rely upon nothing 
more — ^not even upon the word of kings.” 

“ My lord duke,” cried Marie Antoinette, with 
flashing anger, “ you go too far, you forget that 
you are speaking to your queen.” 

“ Madame,” cried he, still louder, “ here in 
Trianon there is no queen, there are no subjects ! 
You yourself have said it, and I at least will hold 
to your words, even if you yourself do not. Let 
us play billiards, madame. I am at your service.” 

And while the Duke de Coigny said this, he 
seized with an angry movement the billiard-cue 
of the queen. It was a present which Marie An- 
toinette had received from her brother, the Em- 
peror Joseph. It was made of a single rhinoce- 
ros skin, and was adorned with golden knobs. 
The king had a great regard for it, and no one 
before had ever ventured to use it excepting her 
alone. 

“ Give it to me, Coigny,” said she, earnestly. 
“ You deceive yourself, that is not your billiard* 
cue, that is mine.” 


40 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ Madame,” cried he, angrily, “ what is mine is 
taken from me, and why should I not jtake what 
is not mine ? It seems as if this were the latest 
fashion, to do what one pleases with the property 
of others ; I shall hasten to have a share in this 
fashion, even were it only to show that I have 
learned something from your majesty. Let us 
begin.” 

Trembling with anger and excitement, he took 

two balls, laid them in the middle of the table, 

and gave the stroke. But it was so passionately 

given, and in such rage, that the cue glided by 

the balls and struck so strongly against the raised 

rim of the table that it broke. 

\ 

The queen uttered an exclamation of indigna- 
tion, and, raising the hand, pointed with a com- 
manding gesture to the door. 

“ My Lord Duke de Coigny,” said she, proudly, 
“ I release you from the duty of ever coming again 
to Trianon. You are dismissed.” 

The duke, trembling with anger, muttering a 
few unintelligible words, made a slight, careless 
obeisance to the queen, and left the billiard-hall 
with a quick step.^' 

Marie Antoinette looked after him with a long 
and pained look. Then, with a deep sigh, she 
took up the bits of the broken cue anS" went into 
her little porcelain cabinet, in order to gain rest 
and self-command in solitude and stillness. 

Reaching that place, and now sure that no one 
could observe her, Marie Antoinette sank with a 
deep sigh into an arm-chair, and the long-re- 
strained tears started from her eyes. 

“ Oh,” sighed she, sadly, “ they will destroy 
every thing I have, every thing — my confidence, 
my spirit, my heart itself. They will leave me 
nothing but pain and misfortune, and not one of 
them whom I till now have held to be my friends, 
will share it with me.” 

♦ This scene is historical. See “ M^moires de Madame 
de Campan,” vol. ii. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE TRIAL. 

For a whole year the preparation for the trial 
had lasted, and to-day, the 81st of August, I'ZSO, 
the matter would be decided. The friends and 
relatives of the cardinal had had time to manipu- 
late not only public opinion, but also to win over 
the judges, the members of Parliament, to the 
cause of the cardinal, and to prejudice them 
against the queen. All the enemies of Marie An- 
toinette, the legitimists even, who saw their old 
rights of nobility encroached upon by the prefer- 
ence given to the Polignacs and other families 
v/hich had sprung from obscurity ; the party of 
the royal princes and princesses, whom Marie An- 
toinette had always offended, first because she 
was an Austrian, and later because she had al- 
lowed herself to win the love of the king ; the 
men of the agitation and freedom party, who 
thundered in their clubs against the realm, and 
held it to be their sacred duty to destroy the nim- 
bus which had hitherto enveloped the throne, and 
to show to the hungering people that the queen 
who lived in luxury was nothing more than a 
light-minded, voluptuous woman, — all these ene- 
mies of the queen had had time to gain over pub- 
lic opinion and the judges. The trial had been a 
welcome opportunity to all to give free play to 
their revenge, their indignation, and their hate. 
The family of the cardinal, sorely touched by the 
degradation which had come upon them all in 
their head, would, at the least, see the queen 
compromised with the cardinal, and if the latter 
should really come out from the trial as the de- 
ceived and duped one, Marie Antoinette should, 
nevertheless, share in the stain. 

The Rohan family and their friends set there- 
fore all means in motion, in order to win over 
public opinion and the judges. To this end they 
visited the members of Parliament, brought pres- 
ents to those of them who vfere willing to receive 
them, made use of mercenary authors to hurl li- 
bellous pamphlets at the queen, published brch 
thures which, in dignified language, defended the 


THE TRIAL.’ 


41 


cardinal in advance, and exhibited him as tlie 
victim of his devotion and love to the royal fam- 
ily. Everybody read these pamphlets ; and when 
at last the day of decision came, public opinion 
had already declared itself in favor of the cardinal 
and against the queen. 

On the 31st of August, 1786, as already said, 
the trial so long in preparation was to be decided. 
The night before, the cardinal had been trans- 
ferred from the Bastile to the prison, as had also 
the other prisoners who were involved in the 
case. 

At early davrn the whole square before the 
prison was full of men, and the dependants of 
Rohan and the Agitators of Freedom, as Marat 
and* his companions called themselves, were active 
here as ever to turn the feeling of the people 
against the queen. 

In the court-house, on the other side of the 
great square, meanv/hile, the great drama of the 
trial had begun. The members of Parliament, the 
judges in the case, sat in their flowing black gar- 
ments, in long rows before the green table, and 
their serious, sad faces and sympathetic looks 
were all directed toward the cardinal, Louis de 
Rohan. But in spite of the danger of the situa- 
tion, the noble face of the cardinal was com- 
pletely undisturbed, and his bearing princely. He 
appeared in his full priestly array, substituting in 
place of the purple-red under-garment one of vio- 
let, as cardinals do v/hen they appear in mourn- 
I ing. Over this he wore the short red cloak, and 
displayed all his orders ; the red stockings, the 
silk shoes with jewelled buckles, completed his 
array. While entering, he raised his hands and 
gave his priestly blessing to those who should 
judge him, and perhaps condemn him. He then, 
in simple and dignified words, spoke as follows : 

A relative of his, Madame de Boulainvillier, 
had, three years before, brought a young woman 
to him, and requested him to maintain her. She 
was of the most exalted lineage, the last in de- 
scent from the earlier kings of France, of the 

I family of Valois. She called herself the Countess 
of Lamotte-Valois ; her husband, the Count La- 
motte, was the royal sub-lieutenant in some little 

\ 

I 


garrison city, and his salary was not able to sup- 
port them except meagrely. The young lady was 
beautiful, intellectual, of noble manners, and it 
was natural that the cardinal should interest him- 
self in behalf of the unfortunate daughter of the 
kings of France. He supported her for a vfliile, 
and after many exertions succeeded in obtaining 
a pension of fifteen hundred francs from King 
Louis XYL, in behalf of the last descendant of 
the Valois family. Upon this the countess went 
herself to Versailles, in order to render thanks in 
person for this favor. She returned the next day 
to Paris, beaming with joy, and told the cardinal 
that she had not only been received by the queen, 
but that Marie Antoinette had been exceedingly 
gracious to her, and had requested her to visit 
her often. From this day on, the countess had 
naturally gained new favQr in the eyes of the car- 
dinal, for she often went to Versailles ; and from 
the accounts of her visits there, when she re- 
turned, it was clear that she stood in high favor 
v.’ith the queen. But now, unfortunately, the 
cardinal found himself in precisely the opposite 
situation. He stood in extreme disfavor with the 
queen. She never condescended to bestow a 
glance upon him, nor a word. The cardinal was 
for a long time inconsolable on account of this, 
and sought in vain to regain the favor of the 
queen. This he intrusted with the deepest confi- 
dence to the Countess Lamotte-Valois, and she, 
full of friendly zeal, had undertaken to speak to 
the queen in his behalf. Some days later she 
told the cardinal that she had fulfilled her prom- 
ise ; she had painted his sadness in such moving 
v/ords that the queen appeared to be very much 
affected, and had told the countess that she 
would pardon all, if the cardinal would send her 
in writing an apology for the mortifications which 
he had inflicted upon herself and her mother, 
Maria Theresa. The cardinal, of course, joyfully 
consented to this. He sent to the countess a 
document in which he humbly begged pardon for 
ashing the Empress Maria Theresa, years before, 
when Marie Antoinette was yet Dauphiness of 
France, and he, the cardinal, was French amba3» 
sad or in Vienna, to chide her daughter on ao 


42 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


count of her light and haughty behavior, and to 
charge herself with seeing it bettered. This was 
the only offence against the queen of v/liich he 
felt himself guilty, and for this he humbly im- 
plored forgiveness. He had, at the same time, 
begged the queen for an audience, that he might 
pay his respects to her, and on bended knee ask 
her pardon. Some days after, the Countess La- 
motte-Yalois had handed him a paper, v/ritten 
with the queen’s hand, as an answer to his letter. 

The president here interrupted the cardinal : 
“Are you still in possession of this document, 
your eininence ? ” 

The cardinal bowled. “ I have alwaj^s, since I 
had the fortune to receive them, carried with me 
the dear, and to me invaluable, letters of the 
queen. On the day when I was arrested in Ver- 
sailles, they lay in my breast coat-pocket. It 
was my fortune, and the misfortune of those who, 
after I had been carried to the Bastile, burst into 
my palace, sealed my papers, and at once burned 
what displeased them. In this w^ay these letters 
escaped the auto-da-fe. Here is the first letter of 
the queen.” 

He drew a pocket-book from his robe, took 
from it a small folded paper, and laid it upon the 
table before the president. 

The president opened it and read : “ I have 
received your brief, and am delighted to find you 
no longer culpable ; in the mean while, I am sorry 
not to be able to give you the audience which you 
ask. As soon, however, as circumstances allow 
me, I shall inform you ; till then, silence. 

“ Marie Antoinette of France.”* 

A murmur of astonishment arose among the 
judges after this reading, and all looks v/ere 
directed with deep sympathy to the cardinal, 
who, w'ith a quiet, modest bearing, stood over 
against them. The glances of the president of 
the high court, directed themselves, after he had 
read the letter and laid it upon the green table, 
to the great dignitary of the Church, and then he 
seemed to notice for the first time that the cardi- 
nal, a prince and grand almoner of the King of 
France, was standing like a common criminal. 


“ Give tlie lord cardinal an arm-chair,” he 
ordered, with a loud voice, and one of the guards 
ran to bring one of the broad, comfortable chairs 
of the judges, which was just then unoccupied, 
and carried it to the cardinal. 

Prince Rohan thanked the judges with a slight 
inclination of his proud head, and sank into the 
arm-chair. The accused and the judges now sat 
on the same seats, and one would almost have 
suspected that the cardinal, in his magnificent 
costume, with his noble, lofty bearing, his peace- 
ful, passionless face, and sitting in his arm-chair, 
alone and separated from all others, was himself 
the judge of those who, in their dark garments 
and troubled and oppressed spirits, and restless 
mien, were sitting opposite him. 

“ Will your eminence have the goodness to 
proceed ? ” humbly asked the president of the 
court, .after a pause. 

The cardinal nodded as the sign of assent, and 
continued his narrative. 

This letter of the queen naturally filled him with 
great delight, particularly as he had a personal 
interview with her majesty in prospect, and he 
had implored the Countess Valois all the more 
to procure this meeting, because, in spite of the 
forgiveness which the queen had given to the 
cardinal, she continued on all occasions, where 
he had the happiness to be in her presence,* to 
treat him wfith extreme disdain. On one Sunday, 
when he wus reading mass before their majesties, 
he took the liberty to enter the audience-room 
and to address the queen. Marie Antoinette be- 
stowed upon him only an annihilating look of 
anger and scorn, and turned her back upon him, 
saying, at the same time, with a loud voice, to 
the Duchess of Polignac: “ Vf hat a shameless 
act ! These people believe they may do any 
thing if they vrear the purple. They believe they 
may rank with kings, and even address them.” 
These proud and cutting words had naturally 
deeply wounded the cardinal, and, for the first 
time, the doubt was suggested to him w'hether, in 
the end, all the communications of the Countess 
Valois, even the letter of the queen, might not 
prove to be false, for it appeared to him impos- 


♦ Goncourt. — “Histoire de Marie Antoinette,” p. 143. 


THE TRIAL. 


43 


eiblo that the queen could be secretly, favorably 
inclined to a man whom she openly scorned. In 
his anger he said so to the Countess Lamotte, 
and told her that he should hold ail that she had 
brought him from the queen to be false, unless, 
within a very short time, she could procure what 
he had so long and so urgently besought, namely, 
an audience with the queen. He desired this 
audience as a proof that Maiie Antoinette was 
really changed, and, at the same time, as a proof 
that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had told him 
the truth. The countess laughed at his distrust, 
and promised to try all the arts of address wdtli 
the queen, in order to gain for the cardinal the 
desired audience. The latter, who thought he 
recognized in the beautiful and expressive coun- 
tenance of the lady innocence and honorableness, 
now regretted his hasty words, and said to Mad- 
ame Lamotte, that in case the queen would really 
grant him a private audience, he would give her 
(the countess) fifty thousand francs as a sign of 
his gratitude. 

A murmur of applause and of astonishmem 
rose at these words from the spectators, com- 
prising some of the greatest noble families of 
France, the Rohans, the Guemenes, the Counts de 
Vergennes, and all the most powerful enemies of 
the queen, who had taken advantage of this oc- 
casion in order to avenge themselves on the 
Austrian, who had dared to choose her friends 
and select her society, not in accordance with 
lineage, but as her own pleasure dictated. 

The president of the court did not consider 
this murmur of applause marked enough to be 
reprimanded, and let it be continued. 

“And did the Countess Lamotte-Valois procure 
for you this audience ? ” he then asked. 

Prince Rohan w'as silent a moment, his face 
grew pale, his features assumed for the first time 
a troubled expression, and the painful struggles 
which disturbed his soul could be seen working 
within him. 

“ May it please this noble court,” he replied, 
after a pause, with feeling, trembling voice, “ 1 
feel at this moment that, beneath the robe of the 
priest, the heart of the man beats yet. It is, 


howmver, for every man a wrong, an unpardonable 
wu’ong, to disclose the confidence of a lady, and 
to reveal to the open light of day the fiwora 
which have been granted by her. But 1 must 
take this crime upon myself, because I have to de- 
fend the honor of a priest, even of a dignitary in 
the Church, and also because I do not dare to 
suffer my purple to be soiled with even the suspi- 
cion of a lie, or an act of falsehood. It may be 
— and I fear It even myself — it may be, that in 
this matter, I myself was the deceived one, but I 
dare not bring suspicion upon my tiara that I was 
the deceiver, and, therefore, I have to meet the 
stern necessity of disclosing the secret of a lady 
and a queen.” 

“Besides this,” said the president, solemnly — 
“ besides this, your eminence may graciously con- 
sider, in presence 'of the authority given you by 
God, all the tender thoughts of the cardinal must 
be silent. The duty of a dignitary of the Church 
commands you to go before all other men in set- 
ting them a noble example, and one worthy of 
imitation. It is your sacred duty, in accordance 
with the demands of truth, to give the most de- 
tailed information regarding every thing that con- 
cerns this affair, and your eminence wull have the 
goodness to remember that we are the secular 
priests of God, before whom every accused person 
must confess the whole truth with a perfect con- 
science.” 

“I thank you, Mr. President,” said the cardi- 
nal, 'with so gentle and tremulous a voice, that 
you might hear after it a fiiint sob from some 
deeply-veiled ladies who sat on the spectators’ 
seats, and so that even the eyes of President de 
I’Aigre filled with tears — “ I thank you, Mr. Pres- 
ident,” repeated the cardinal, breathing more 
freely. “ You take a heavy burden from my 
heart, and your wisdom instructs me as to ray 
own duty.” 

The president blushed with pleasure at the high 
praises of the cardinal. 

“And noAv,” he said, “I take the liberty of 
repeating my question, did the Countess Lamotte 
Valois succeed in procuring for your eminence a 
secret audience with the queen ? ” 


44 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ She did,” replied the cardinal, “ she did pro- 
cure an interview for me.” 

And compelling himself to a quiet manner, he 
went on with his story: The Countess de Valois 
came to him after two days with a joyful counte- 
nance, and brought to him the request to accom- 
pany the Countess Valois two days later to Ver- 
sailles, where, in the garden, in a place indicated 
by the countess, the meeting of the queen and 
the cardinal should take place. The cardinal was 
to put on the simple, unpretending dress of a cit- 
izen of Paris, a blue cloth coat, a round hat, and 
high leather boots. The cardinal, full of inex- 
pressible delight at this, could, notwithstanding, 
scarcely believe that the queen would show him 
this intoxicating mark of her favor ; upon which 
the Countess Valois, laughing, showed him a let- 
ter of the queen, directed to her, on gold-bordered 
paper, and signed like the note which he had 
received before — “ Marie Antoinette of France.” 
In this note the queen requested her dear friend 
to go carefully to work to warn the cardinal to 
speak softly during the interview, because there 
were ears lurking in the neighborhood, and not 
to come out from the thicket till the queen 
should give a sign. 

After reading this letter, the cardinal had no 
more doubts, but surrendered himself completely 
to his joy, his impatience, and longed for the ap- 
pointed hour to arrive. At last this hour came, 
and, in company with the countess, the cardinal, 
arrayed in the appointed dress, repaired in a sim- 
ple hired carriage to Versailles. The countess 
led him to the terrace of the palace, w’here she 
directed the cardinal to hide behind a clump of 
laurel-trees, and then left him, in order to inform 
the queen, who walked every evening in the park, 
in company with the Count and Countess d’ Ar- 
tois, of the presence of the cardinal, and to con- 
duct her to him. The latter now remained alone, 
and, with loud-beating heart, listened to every 
sound, and, moving gently around, looked down 
the long alley which ran between the two foun- 
tains, in order to catch sight of the approach of 
the queen. It was a delightful evening ; the full 
moon shone in golden clearness from the deep- 


blue sky, and illuminated all the objects in the 
neighborhood with a light like that of day. It 
now disclosed a tall, noble figure, clad in a dark 
red robe, and with large blue pins in her hair, 
hurrying to the terrace, and followed by the 
Countess Valois. 

To the present moment the cardinal had slight- 
ly doubted as to his unmeasurable good fortune — 
now he doubted no more. It was the queen, Ma- 
rie Antoinette, who was approaching She wore 
the same dress, the same coiffure which she had 
worn the last Sunday, when after the mass he had 
gone to Versailles to drive. 

Yes, it was the queen, who was hurrying across 
the terrace, and approaching the thicket behind 
which the cardinal was standing. 

“Come,” whispered she, softly, and the cardi- 
nal quickly emerged from the shade, sank upon 
his knee before the queen, and eagerly pressed 
the fair hand tvhich she extended to him to his 
lips. “ Your eminence,” whispered the queen to 
him, “ I can unfortunately spend only a moment 
here. I cherish nothing against you, and shall 
soon show you marks of my highest favor. Mean- 
time, accept this token of my grace.” And Ma- 
rie Antoinette took a rose from her bosom and 
gave it to the cardinal. “Accept, also, this re- 
membrancer,” whispered the queen, again placing 
a little case in his hand. “ It is my portrait. Look 
often at it, and never doubt me, I — ” 

At this moment the Countess Valois, who had 
been waiting at some distance, hastily came up. 

“ Some one is coming,” whispered she ; “ for 
God’s sake, your majesty,‘fly ! ” 

Voices were audible in the distance, and soon 
they approached. The queen grasped the hand 
of the Countess Lamotte. 

“ Come, my friend,” said she. “ Farewell, car- 
dinal, au revoir ! ” 

Full of joy at the high good fortune which had 
fallen to him, and at the same time saddened at 
the abrupt departure of the queen, the cardinal 
turned back to Paris. On the next day the Count- 
ess Valois brought a billet from the queen, in 
which she deeply regretted that their interview 
yesterday had been so brief, and promising a 


THE TRIAL. 


45 


speedy appointment again. Some days after this 
occurrence, which constantly occupied the mind 
of the cardinal, he was obliged to go to Alsace, 
to celebrate a church festival. On the very 
n&xt day, however, came the husband of the 
countess. Count Lamotte, sent as a courier by the 
countess. He handed the cardinal a letter from 
the queen, short and full of secrecy, like the ear- 
lier ones. 

“ The moment,” wrote the queen — “ the mo- 
ment which I desired is not yet come. But I bog 
you to return at once to Paris, because I am in a 
secret affair, which concerns me personally, and 
which I shall intrust to you alone, and in which I 
need your assistance. The Countess Lamotte- 
Valois will give you the key to this riddle.” 

As if on the wings of birds, the cardinal re- 
turned to Paris, and at once repaired to the little 
palace which the countess had purchased with the 
fruits of his liberality. Here he learned of her 
the reason of his being sent for. Thb matter in 
question was the purchasing of a set of jewels, 
which the royal jewellers, Bohmer and Bassenge, 
had often offered to the queen. Marie Antoinette 
had seen the necklace, and had been enraptured 
with the size and beauty of the diamonds. But 
she had had the spirit to refuse to purchase the 
collar, in consequence of the enormous price 
which the jewellers demanded. She had, how- 
ever, subsequently regretted her refusal, and the 
princely set of gems, the like of which did not 
exist in Europe, had awakened the most intense 
desire on the part of the queen to possess it. 
She wanted to purchase it secretly, without the 
knowledge of the king, and to pay for it gradual- 
ly out of the savings of her own purse. But just 
then the jew’ellers Bohmer and Bassenge had it 
in view to send the necklace to Constantinople 
for the Sultan, who wanted to present it to the 
best-loved of his wdves. But before completing 
the sale, the crown jewellers made one more ap- 
plication to the queen, declaring that if she would 
consent to take the necklace, they would be con- 
tent with any conditions of payment. In the 
mean time, the private treasury of the queen was 
empty. The severe winter had induced much suf- 


fering and misfortune, and the queen had given 
all her funds to the poor. But as she earnestly 
desired to purchase the necklace, she v/ould give 
her grand almoner a special mark of her favor in 
granting to him the commission of purchasing it 
in her name. He should receive a paper from the 
queen’s own hand authorizing the purchase, yet 
he should keep this to himself, and show it only 
to the court jewellers at the time of the purchase. 
The first payment of six hundred thousand francs 
the cardinal was to pay from his own purse, the 
remaining million the queen would pay in instal- 
ments of one hundred thousand francs each, at 
the expiration of every three months. In the 
next three months, the six hundred thousand 
francs advanced by the cardinal should be re- 
funded. 

The cardinal felt himself highly flattered by 
this token of the queen’s confidence, and desired 
nothing more than the written authorization of the 
queen, empowering him to make the purchase at 
once. This document was not waited for long. 
Two days only passed before the Countess La- 
motte- Valois brought it, dated at Trianon, and 
subscribed Marie Antoinette of France. Mean- 
while some doubts arose in the mind of the cardi 
nal. He turned to his friend and adviser. Count 
Cagliostro, for counsel. The latter had cured him 
years before while very sick, and since that time 
had always been his disinterested friend, and the 
prophet, so to speak, who always indicated the 
cardinal’s future to him. This man, so clear in 
his foresight, so skilful in medicine, was now 
taken into confidence, and his advice asked. 
Count Cagliostro summoned the spirits that w^aited 
upon him, before the cardinal, one solitary night. 
He asked these invisible presences what their 
counsel was, and the oracle answered, that the 
affair was one worthy of the station of the cardi- 
nal ; that it would have a fortunate issue ; that it 
put the seal upon the favors of the queen, and 
'would usher in the fortunate day which would 
bring the great talents of the cardinal into em- 
ployment for the benefit of France and the world. 

The cardinal doubted and hesitated no longer. 
He went at once to the court jewellers Bohmer 


46 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


and Bassenge : he did not conceal from them 
that he was going to buy the necklace in the 
name of the queen, and showed them the written 
authorization. The jewellers entered readily into 
the transaction. The cardinal made a deposit of 
six hundred thousand francs, and Bohmer and 
Bassenge gave him the necklace. It was the day 
before a great festival, and at the festival the 
queen wanted to wear the necklace. In the even- 
ing a trusted servant of the queen was to take the 
necklace from the dwelling of the Countess La- 
motte-Valois. The countess herself requested the 
cardinal to be present, though unseen, when the 
delivery should take place. 

In accordance with this agreement, the cardinal 
repaired to the palace of the countess on the 
evening of February 1st, 1784, accompanied by a 
trusted valet, who carried the casket with the 
necklace. At the doorw^ay he himself took the 
collar and gave it to the countess. She con- 
ducted the cardinal to an alcove adjoining her 
sitting-room. Through the door provided wuth 
glass window's he could dimly see the sitting- 
room. 

After some minutes the main entrance opened, 
and a voice cried : “ In the service of the queen ! ” 
A man in the livery of the queen, whom the car- 
dinal had often seen at the countess’s, and v/hoin 
she had told was a confidential servant of the 
queen, entered and demanded the casket in the 
name of the queen. The Countess Yalois took it 
and gave it to the servant, who bowled and took 
Ids leave. At the moment vrhen the man de- 
parted, bearing this costly set of jewels, the car- 
dinal experienced an inexpressible sense of satis- 
faction at having had the happiness of conferring 
a service upon the Queen of France, the wife of 
the king, the mother of the future king, — not 
merely in the purchase of the diamonds w-hich 
she desired, but still more in preventing the 
young and impulsive w'oman from taking the un- 
becoming step of applying to any other gentleman 
of the court for this assistance. 

At these words the spectators broke into loud 
exclamations, and one of the veiled ladies cried : 
“Lords Vaudreuil and Coigny would not have 


paid so much, but they would have demanded 
more. And this expression, too, was greeted 
with loud acclaims. 

The first president of the court, Baron de 
I’Aigre, here cast a grave look toward the trib- 
une w'here the spectators sat, but his reproach 
died away upon lips v/hich disclosed a faint incli- 
nation to smile. 

“J now beg your eminence,” he said, “to an- 
swer the following question : “ Did Queen Marie 
Antoinette personally (hank you for the great 
service which, according to your showing, you 
did her ? How is it with the payments which 
the queen pledged herself to make ? ” 

The cardinal was silent for a short time, and 
looked sadly before him. “ Since the day when 
I closed this unfortunate purchase, I have expe- 
rienced only disquietudes, griefs, and humiliations. 
This is the only return which I have received for 
my devotion. The queen has never bestowed a 
word upon miC. At the great festival she did not 
even wear the necklace w'hich she had sent for on 
the evening before. I complained of this to the 
countess, and the queen had the goodness to 
v/rite me a note, saying that she had found the 
necklace too valuable to wear on that day, be- 
cause it would have attracted the attention of the 
king and the court. I confided in the words of 
the queen, and experienced no doubts about the 
matter till the unhappy day when the queen was 
to make the first payment to the jewellers, and 
when she sent neither to me nor to the jewellers 
a word. Upon this a fearful suspicion began to 
trouble me, — that my devotion to the queen might 
have been taken advantage of, in order to deceive 
and mislead me. Yfhen this dreadful thought 
seized me, I shuddered, and had not power to 
look down into the abyss which suddenly yawned 
beneath me. I at once summoned the Countess 
Lamotte, and desired her solution of this inexpli- 
cable conduct of the queen. She told me that 
she had been on the point of coming to me and 
informing me, at the request of the queen, that 
other necessary outlays had prevented the queen’s 
paying me the six hundred thousand francs that I 
had disbursed to Bohmer at the purchase of the 


THE TKIAL. 


4 ^ 


necklace, and that she must be content with pay- 
ing the interest of this sum, thirty thousand francs. 
The queen requested me to be satisfied for the 
present with this arrangement, and to be sure of 
her favor. I trusted the words of the countess 
once more, took fresh courage, and sent word to 
the queen that I should always count myself 
happy to conform to her arrangements, and be 
her devoted servant. The countess dismissed 
me, saying that she would bring the money on' 
the morrow. In the mean time, something oc- 
curred that awakened all my doubts and all my 
anxieties afresh. I visited the Duchess de Po- 
lignac, and while I was with her, there was 
handed her a note from the queen. I requested 
the duchess, in case the billet contained no secret, 
to show it to me, that I might see the handwrit- 
ing of the queen. The duchess complied with 
my request, and — ” 

The cardinal was silent, and deep inward ex- 
citement made his face pale. He bowed his 
head, folded his hands, and his lips moved in 
whispered prayers. 

The judges, as well as the spectators, remained 
silent. No one was able to break the solemn 
stillness by an audible breath — by a single move- 
ment. 

At length, after a long pause, w^heii the cardi- 
nal had raised his head again, the president asked 
gently : “ And so your eminence saw the note 
of the queen, and w'as it not the same writing as 
tlie letters which you had received ? ” 

“ No, it was not the same ! ” cried the cardinal, 
with pain. “ No, it was an entirely diflerent hand. 
Only the signature had any resemblance, although 
the letter to the duchess was simply subscribed 
‘ Marie Antoinette.’ I hastened home, and awaited 
the coming of the countess with feverish impa- 
tience. She came, smiling as ever, and brought 
me the thirty thousand francs. With glowdng, 
passionate words, I threw my suspicions in her 
face. She appeared a moment alarmed, confused, 
and then granted that it was possible that the 
letters were not from the hand of the queen, but 
that she had dictated them. But the signatures 
were the queen’s, she could take her oath of it. 


I again took a little courage ; but soon after the 
countess had left me, the jewellers came in the 
highest excitement to me, to tell me that, receiv- 
ing no payments from the queen, they had ap- 
plied in writing to her several times, without re- 
ceiving any answ^er ; their eiTorts to obtain an 
audience were also all in vain, and so they had 
at last applied to the first lady-in-waiting on 
the queen, Madame de Campan, with whom 
they had just had an interview. Madame de 
Campan had told them that the queen did not 
possess the necklace ; that no Countess Lamotte- 
Valois had ever had an interview with the queen; 
that she had told the jewellers with extreme in- 
dignation that some one had been deceiving them ; 
that they were the victims of a fraud, and that 
she v/ould at once go to Trianon to inform the 
queen of this fearful intrigue. This happened on 
a Thursday ; on the folio wdng Sunday I repaired 
to Versailles to celebrate high mass, and the rest 
you know. I have nothing further to add.” 

“ In the name of the court I thank your emi- 
nence for your open and clear exposition of this 
sad history,” said the president, solemnly. “ Your 
eminence needs refreshment, you are free to with- 
draw and to return to the Bastilc.” 

The cardinal rose and bowed to the court. All 
the judges stood, and respectfully returned the 
salutation.'^' 

One of the veiled ladies, sitting on the specta- 
tors’ seats, cried with trembling voice : “ God 
bless the cardinal, the noble martyr of the 
realm ! ” 

All the spectators repeated the cry ; and, while 
the words yet rang, the cardinal, followed by the 
officers who v/ere to take him to the Bastile, had 
left the hall. 

“ Guards ! ” cried President de I’Aigre, with a 
loud voice, “bring in the accused, the Countess 
de Lamotte-Yalois ! ” ^ 

All eyes directed themselves to the door which 
the guards now opened, and through which the 
accused was to enter. 

Upon the threshold of this door appeared now 

* Historical. — See “Mdraoires de TAbbe Georgel,’’ 
voL t 


48 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


a lady of slim, gracefal form, in a toilet of the 
greatest elegance, her head decorated with feath- 
ers, flowers, and lace, her cheeks highly painted, 
and her fine ruby lips encircled by a pert, and at 
the same time a mocking smile, which displayed 
two rows of the finest teeth. With this smile 
upon her lips she moved forward with a light and 
spirited step, turning her great blazing black eyes 
with proud, inquisitive looks now to the stern semi- 
circle of judges and now to the tribune, whose 
occupants had* not been able to suppress a move- 
ment of indignation and a subdued hiss. 

“ Gentlemen,” said she, with a clear, distinct 
voice, in which not the faintest quiver, not the 
least excitement wms apparent — “ gentlemen, are 
we here in a theatre, where the players who tread 
the boards are received v/ith audible signs of ap- 
proval or of disfavor ? ” 

The president, to whom her dark eyes were 
directed, deigned to give no answer, but turned 
with ap expressive gesture to the officer who 
stood behind the accused. 

He understood this sign, and brought from the 
corner of the hall a wooden seat of rough, clumsy 
form, to whose high back of unpolished dirty 
wood two short iron chains were attached. 

This seat he placed near the handsome, gau- 
dily-dressed countess with her air of assurance and 
self-confidence, and pointed to it v/ith a com- 
manding gesture. 

“ Be seated,” he said, with a loud, lordly tone. 
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked at the 
offered seat with an expression of indignation. 
“ How ! ” she cried, “ who dares offer me the 
chair cf criminals to sit in ? ” 

“ Be seated,” replied the officer. “ The seat 
of the accused is ready for you, and the chains 
upon it are for those who are not inclined to 
take it.” 

A cry of anger escaped from her lips, and her 
eyes flashed an annihilating glance upon the ven- 
turesome officer, but he did not appear to be in 
the least affected by the lightning from her eyes, 
but met it with perfect tranquillity. 

“ If you do not take it of yourself, madame,” 
he said, “ I shall be compelled to summon the 


police; we shall tlien compel you to take the, seat, 
and in order to prevent your rising, the chains 
will be bound around your arms.” 

The countess answered only with an exclama- 
tion of tinger, and fixed her inquiring looks upon 
the judges, the accusers, the defeuders, and then 
again upon the spectators. Everywhere she en- 
countered only a threatening mien and suspicious 
looks, nowhere an expression of sympathy. 

But it was just this which seemed to give her 
courage and to steel her strength. She raised 
her head proudly, forced the smile again upon her 
lips, and took her seat upon the chair with a 
grace and dignity as if she wmre in a brilliant 
saloon, and was taking her seat upon an elegant 
sofa. 

The president of the court now turned his 
grave, rigid face to the countess, and asked: 
“ Who are you, madame ? What is your name, 
and how old are you ? ” 

The countess gave way to a loud, melodious 
laugh.- “ My lord president,’’ answered she, “ it 
is very clear that you are not much accustomed 
to deal with ladie.s, or else you would not take 
the liberty of asking a lady, like myself in her 
prime, after her age. I will pardon you this 
breach of etiquette, and I will magnanimously 
pretend not to have heard that question, in order 
to answer the others. You wish to know my 
name? I am the Countess Lamotte- Valois of 
France, the latest descendant of the former Kings 
of France; and if in this unhappy land, which is 
trodden to the dust by a stupid king and a disso- 
lute queen, right and justice still prevailed, I 
should sit on the throne of France, and the co- 
quette who now occupies it would be sitting 
here in this criminal’s chair, to justify herself for 
the theft which she has committed, for it is Marie 
Antoinette^ who possesses the diamonds of the 
jeweller Bohmer, not I.” 

At the spectators’ tribune a gentle bravo was 
heard at these words, and this daring calumny 
upon the queen found no reproval even from the 
judges’ bench. 

“ Madame,” said L’Aigre, after a short pause, 
“instead of simply answering my questions you 


THE TRIAL. 


49 


reply with a high-sounding speech, which contains 
an untruth, for it is not true that you can lay any 
claim to the throne of France. The descendants 
of bastards have claims neither to the name nor 
the rank of their fathers. Since, in respect to 
your name and rank, you have answered wdth an 
untruth, I will tell you who and what you are. 
Your father was a poor peasant in the village of 
Auteuil. He called himself Valois, and the cler- 
gyman of the village one day told the wife of the 
proprietor of Auteuil, Madame de Boulainvillier, 
that the peasant of Valois was in possession of 
family papers, according to which it was unques- 
tionable that he was an illegitimate descendant of 
the old royal family. The good priest at the same 
time recommended the poor, hungry children of 
the day-laborer Valois to the kindness of Madame 
de Boulainvillier, and the old lady hastened to 
. comply with this recommendation. She had the 
daughter of Valois called to her to ask her how 
she could assist her in her misery.” 

“ Say rather to gain for herself the credit that 
she had shown kindnesses to the descendants of 
the Kings of France,” interrupted the countess, 
quickly. 

“ This would have been a sorry credit,” replied 
President L’Aigre. “ The Valois family had for a 
long time been extinct, and the last man of that 
name who is known, was detected in counterfeit- 
ing, sentenced, and executed. Your grandfather 
was an illegitimate son of the counterfeiter Va- 
lois. That is the sum total of your relation to 
the royal family of France. It is possible that 
upon this very chair on which you now sit, ac- 
cused of this act of deception, your natural 
great-grandfather once sat, accused like you of an 
act of deception, in order, after conviction of his 
crime, to be punished -according to the laws of 
France.” 

The countess made a motion as if she wanted 
to rise from the unfortunate seat, but instantly 
the heavy hand of the officer was laid upon her 
shoulder, and his threatening voice said, “Sit 
still, or I put on the chains ! ” 

The Countess Lamotte-Valois of France sank 
back with a loud sob upon the chair, and for the 
4 


first time a death-like paleness diffused itself ove’" 
her hitherto rosy cheeks. 

“ So Madame de Boulainvillier had the children 
of the day-laborer Valois called,’’ continued the 
president, with his imperturbable self-possession 
“ The oldest daughter, a girl of twelve years 
pleased her in consequence of her lively nature 
and her attractive exterior. She took her to her- 
self, she gave her an excellent education, she was 
resolved to provide for her whole future ; when 
one day the young Valois disappeared from the 
chateau of Madame de Boulainvillier. She had 
eloped v/ith the sub-lieutenant. Count Lamotte, 
and announced to her benefactress, in a letter 
vffiich she left behind, that she was escaping from 
the slavery in which she had hitherto lived, and 
that she left her curse to those who wanted to 
hinder her marrying the man of her choice. But 
in order to accomplish her marriage, she confessed 
that she had found it necessary to rob the casket 
of Madame de Boulainvillier, and that out of this 
money she should defray her expenses. It was a 
sum of twenty thousand francs which the fugitive 
had robbed from her benefactress.” 

“ I take the liberty of remarking to you, Mr. 
President, that you are there making use of a to- 
tally false expression,” interrupted the countess. 
“ It cannot be said that I robbed this sum. It 
was the dowry which Madame de Boulainvillier 
had promised to give me in case of my marriage, 
and I only took what was my ovm, as I was upon 
the point of marrying. Madame de Boulainvillier 
herself justified me in taking this sum, 'or she 
never asked me to return it or filed an accusation 
against me.” 

“ Because she wanted to prevent the matter be- 
coming town-talk,” remarked the president, quiet- 
ly. “Madame de Boulainvillier held her peace, 
and relinquished punishment to the righteous 
Judge who lives above the stars.” 

“ And who surely has not descended from the 
stars to assume the president’s chair of this 
court,” cried Lamotte, with a mocking laugh. 

President L’Aigre, without heeding the interrup- 
tion, continued: ' 

•“The daughter of the laborer Valois married 


50 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


the sub-lieutenant Lamotte, who lived in a little 
garrison city of the province, and sought to in- 
crease his meagre salary by many ingenious de- 
vices. He not merely gave instruction in fencing 
and riding, but he was also a very skilful card- 
player — so skilful, that fortune almost always 
accompanied him.” 

“My lord,” cried the countess, springing up, 
“ you seem to want to hint that Count Lamotte 
played a false game. You surely would not ven- 
ture to say this if the count were free, for he 
would challenge you for this insult, and it is well 
known that his stroke is fatal to those who stand 
in the way of his dagger.” 

“ I hint at nothing, and I merely call things by 
their right names,” replied the president, smiling. 
“ In consequence of strong suspicions of false 
play. Count Lamotte was driven out of his regi- 
ment; and as the young pair had in the mean 
time consumed the stolen wedding-money, they 
must discover some new way of making a living. 
The young husband repaired to the south of 
France to continue his card-playing; the young 
wife, having for her fortune her youth and the 
splendor of her name, repaired to Paris, both re- 
solved de corriger la fortune wherever and how- 
ever they could. This^ madame,” continued the 
president, after a pause, “ this is the true answer 
to my question, how you are called, and who you 
are.” 

“ The answer is, however, not yet quite satis- 
factory,” replied Lamotte, in an impudent tone. 
“ You have forgotten to add that I am the friend 
of the cardinal. Prince Louis de Rohan, the confi- 
dante and friend of Queen Marie Antoinette, and 
that both now want to do me the honor to make 
me their hete de souffrance^ and to let me suffer 
for what they have done and are guilty of. My 
whole crime lies in this, that I helped the Queen 
of France gain the jewels for which her idle and 
trivial soul longed ; that I helped the amorous and 
light-minded cardinal approach the object of his 
love, and procured for him an interview with the 
queen. That is all that can be charged upon me ; 
I procured for the queen the fine necklace of 
Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge ; I gave the cardi- 


nal, as the price of a part of the necklace, a ten- 
der tete-d-tete with the queen. The cardinal will 
not deny that in the garden of Versailles he had 
a rendezvous with the queen, that he kissed her 
hand and received a rose from her; and the 
queen will be compelled to confess in the end 
that the necklace is in her possession. What 
blame can be laid on me for this ? ” 

“The blame of deception, of defalcation, of 
forgery, of calumny, of theft,” replied the presi- 
dent, with solemn earnestness. “ You deceived 
Cardinal de Rohan in saying that you knew the 
queen, that you were intimate with her, that she 
honored you with her confidence. You forged, or 
got some one to forge, the handwriting of the 
queen, and prepared letters which you gave to the 
cardinal, pretending that they came from the 
queen. You misused the devotion of the cardinal 
to the royal family, and caused his eminence to 
believe that the queen desired his services in the 
purchase of the necklace ; and after the cardinal, 
full of pleasure, had been able to do a service to 
the queen, had treated with Bohmer and Bas- 
senge, had paid a part of the purchase money, 
and gave you the necklace in charge to be put 
into the queen’s hands, you were guilty of theft, 
for the queen knows nothing of the necklace ; the 
queen never gave you the honor of an audience, 
the queen never spoke with you, and no one of 
the queen’s companions ever saw the Countess 
Lamotte.” 

“ That means they disown me ; they all disown 
me ! ” cried the countess, with flaming rage, stamp- 
ing upon the floor with her little satin-covered 
foot. “ But the truth will one day come to the 
light. The cardinal will not deny that the queen 
gave him a rendezvous at Versailles ; that she 
thanked him personally for the necklace which 
she had procured through his instrumentality.” 

“ Yes, the truth will come to the light,” an- 
swered the president. “ I summon the crown at- 
torney, M. de Borillon, to present the charge 
against the Countess Lamotte-Valois.” 

On this the attorney-general, Borillon, rose, and 
amid the breathless silence of the assembly began 
to speak. He painted the countess as a crafty, 


THE TRIAL. 


51 


sldlful adventuress, who had come to Paris with 
the determined purpose of making her fortune in 
whatever way it could be done. He then spoke 
of the destitution in which she had lived at first, 
of the begging letters which she addressed to all 
people of distinction, and especially to Cardinal 
de Rohan, in consequence of his well-known lib- 
erality. He painted in lively and touching colors 
the scene where the cardinal, struck by the name 
of the suppliant, went in person to the attic to 
convince himself whether it were really true that 
a descendant of the Kings of France had been 
driven to such poverty and humiliation, and to 
give her assistance for the sake of the royal house, 
to which he was devoted heart and soul. He 
painted further how the cardinal, attracted by the 
lively spirits, amiability, and intellectual charac- 
ter of Lamotte- Valois, had given her his confi- 
dence, and believed what she told him about her 
favor with the queen, and her intimate relations 
with her. “ The cardinal,” continued the attorney- 
general, “ did not doubt for a moment the trust- 
worthiness of the countess ; he had not the least 
suspicion that he was appointed to become the 
victim of an intriguer, who would take advantage 
of his noble spirit, his magnanimity, to deceive 
him and to enrich herself. The countess knew 
the boundless devotion of the cardinal to the 
queen ; she had heard his complaints of the proud 
coldness, the public slights which she offered to 
him. On the other hand, she had heard of the 
costly diamond necklace which Bohmer and Bas- 
senge had repeatedly offered to the queen, and 
that she had refused to take it on account of the 
enormous price v/hich they demanded for it. On 
this the countess formed her plan and it succeed- 
ed perfectly. She caused the cardinal to hope 
that he would soon have an audience of the queen, 
if he would give solid assurances of his devotion, 
and when he professed himself ready, she pro- 
posed to him, as acting under the queen’s instruc- 
tions, the purchase of the necklace. The cardinal 
declared himself ready to accede, and the affair 
took the, course already indicated with such touch- 
ing frankness and lofty truthfulness by his emi- 
nence. He brought the purchase to a conclu- 


sion ; he paid the first instalment of six hundred 
thousand francs, and gave the necklace to the 
friend of the queen, the Countess Lamotte-Ya- 
lois, after he had availed himself of her assistance 
in receiving from the lips and hand of the queen 
in the garden of Versailles the assurance of the 
royal favor. The countess at once brought the 
cardinal a paper from the queen, stating that she 
had received the necklace, and conveying to him 
the warm thanks of his queen. The cardinal felt 
himself richly rewarded by this for aU his pains 
and outlays, and in the joy of his heart wanted to 
repay her who, in so prudent and wise a manner, 
had effected his reconciliation with the queen. He 
settled upon her a yearly pension of four thousand 
francs, payable her whole life, and the countess 
accepted it with tears of emotion, and swore eter- 
nal gratitude to the cardinal. But while uttering 
this very oath she was conspiring against her ben- 
efactor, and laughing in her sleeve at the credu- 
lous prince who had fallen into the very net which 
she had prepared for him. Her most active ally 
was her husband, whom she had long before sum- 
moned to Paris, and who was the abetter of her 
intrigue. The countess had now become a rich 
lady, and was able to indulge all her cravings for 
splendor and luxury. She who, down to that 
time, had stood as a supplicant before the doors 
of the rich, could herself have a princely dwelling, 
and could devote great sums to its adornment. 
The most celebrated makers were called on to fur- 
nish the furniture and the decorations, and, as if 
by a touch of magic, she was surrounded by fab- 
ulous luxury; the fairest equipages stood ready 
for her, the finest horses in her stable, and a troop 
of lackeys waited upon the beck of the fair lady 
wdio displayed her princely splendor before them. 
A choice silver service glittered upon her table, 
and she possessed valuables worth more than a 
hundred thousand francs. More than this, she 
enjoyed the best of all, a tender and devoted hus- 
band, who overloaded her with presents ; from 
London, whither he was called by pressing family 
affairs, he sent his wife a medallion of diamonds, 
which was subsequently estimated at two hundred 
and thirty louis-d’ors, and a pearl bracelet worth 


52 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


two hundred louis-d’ors. Returning from his jour- 
ney, he surprised his wife with a new and splendid 
present. He had purchased a palace in Bar-sur- 
Aube, and thither the whole costly furniture of 
his hired house was carried. Would you know 
where all these rare gifts were drawn ? The 
Countess Lamotte had broken the necklace, and 
talren the stones from their setting. For the gold 
alone which was used in the setting she received 
forty thousand francs ; for one of the diamonds, 
which she sold in Paris, she received fifty thou- 
sand francs ; for another, thirty-six thousand. 
The diamonds of uncommon size and immense 
worth she did not dare to dispose of in Paris, and 
her husband was compelled to journey to London 
to sell a portion of them there. On his return 
thence he was able to buy for his wife the house 
in Bar-sur-Aube, for the sum received in London 
was four hundred thousand francs in gold, in ad- 
dition to the pearls and the diamond medallion 
which he brought his wife from London. And of 
all this luxury, this extravagance, Cardinal de Ro- 
han had naturally no suspicion. When he visited 
her, where did the countess receive him ? In a 
poorly-furnished attic-chamber of the house hired 
by her. In simple, modest attire, she met him 
there and told him wnth trembling voice that the 
rich countess who lived in the two lower stories of 
the house had allowed her to have this suite next 
to the roof gratis. But when danger approached, 
and Lamotte began to fear that Bohmer and Bas- 
senge, in claiming their pay from the queen, 
'would bring the history of the necklace to the 
light, the countess came to the cardinal to pay 
her parting respects, as she was going into the 
country to a friend to live in the greatest privacy. 
She left Paris merely to repair to Bar-sur-Aube 
and live in her magnificent palace. She tarried 
there so long as to allow the police detectives to 
discover in the rich and elegant lady the intriguer 
Lamotte- Valois, and to effect the imprisonment of 
her husband and his friend, the so-called Count 
Cagliostro. Her other abetters had put them- 
selves out of sight, and were not to be discov- 
ered. However, their arrest was not specially 
necessary, for the facts were already sufficiently 


strong and clear. Some of the diamonds which 
Lamotte had sold in London were brought back 
to Paris, and had been recognized by Bohmer anc 
Bassenge as belonging to the necklace which they 
had sold to the queen. The goldsmith had been 
discovered to whom the countess had sold the 
golden setting of the necklace, and Bohmer and 
Bassenge had recognized in the fragments which 
remained their own work. It is unquestionable 
that the Countess Lamotte-Valois, through her 
intrigues and cunning, had been able to gain pos- 
session of the necklace, and that she had appro- 
priated it to her own use. The countess is there- 
fore guilty of theft and deception. She is, more- 
over, guilty of forgery, for she has imitated the 
handwriting of the queen, and subscribed it with 
the royal name. But the hand is neither that of 
the queen, nor does the queen ever subscribe 
herself ‘ Marie Antoinette of France.’ This makes 
Lamotte open to the charge of both forgery and 
contempt of majesty, for she has even dared to 
drag the sacred person of the Queen of France 
into her mesh of lies, and to make her majesty 
the heroine of a dishonorable love-adventure.” 

“ My lord,” cried Countess Lamotte, with a loud 
laugh, “ you are not driven to the necessity of in- 
volving the queen in dishonorable love-adventures. 
The queen is in reality the heroine of so many 
adventures of this character, that you can have 
your choice of them. A queen who visits the 
opera-house balls incognito, drives thither masked 
and in a fiacre, and who appears incognito on the 
terraces of Versailles with strange soldiers, ex 
changing jocose words with them — a queen of the 
type of this Austrian may not wonder to find her 
name identified with the heroine of a love-adven- 
ture. But we are speaking now not of a romance, 
but of a reality, and I am not to be accused of 
forgery and contempt of majesty without having 
the proofs brought forward. This cannot, how- 
ever, be done, for I have the proofs of my inno- 
cence. The cardinal had an interview with the 
queen, and she gave him a receipt for the dia- 
monds. If she wrote her signature difierently 
from her usual manner, it is not my fault. It only 
shows that the queen was cunning enough to se-* 


THE TRIAL. 


, 53 


cure an alihi^ so to speak, for her signature, and 
to leave a rear door open for herself, through 
which she could slip with her exalted name, in 
case the affair was discovered, and leave me to 
be her Mte de soicffrance. But I am by no means 
disposed to accept this part, for I declare here 
solemnly, before God and man, that I am innocent 
of the crime laid to my charge. I was only a too 
true and devoted friend, that is all ! I sacrificed my 
own safety and peace to the welfare of my exalted 
friends, and I now complain of them that they 
have treated me unthankfully in this matter. 
But they must bear the blame, they alone. Let 
the queen show that she did not give the cardinal 
a rendezvous in the park of Versailles ; let her 
further show that she did not sign the promissory 
note, and the letters to his eminence, and then I 
shall be exposed to the charge of being a de- 
ceiver and a traitor. But so long as this is not 
done — and it cannot be done, for God is just, and 
will not permit the innocent to suffer for the guil- 
ty — so long will all France, yes, all Europe, be con- 
vinced that the queen is the guilty one ; that she 
received the jewels, and paid the cardinal for them 
as a coquette and light-minded woman does, with 
tender words, with smiles and loving looks, and, 
last of all, with a rendezvous ! ” 

“ You are right,” said the attorney-general, as 
the countess ceased, and looked around her with 
a victorious smile — “ you are cjiiite right, God is 
just, and He will not permit the innocent to suffer 
for the guilty. He will not let your infernal in- 
trigue stand as truth ; He will tear away the mask 
of innocence from your deceiver’s face, and let 
you stand forth in all your impudence and de- 
ception.” 

“ My lord,” cried the countess, smiling, “ those 
are very high-sounding words, but they are no 
proofs.” 

“ Vfe will now give the proofs,” answered the 
attorney-general, turning to one of the guards. 
‘ Let the lady enter who is waiting in the room 
outside..” 

The officer gave a sign to one of the men who 
stood near the door leading to the witness- 
0 room ; he entered the adjoining apartment, but 


soon after returned alone and whispered some- 
thing in the officer’s ear. 

“ The lady asks the court’s indulgence for a 
few moments,” said the officer, aloud. “ As she 
must be separated some hours from her child, 
she asks permission to suckle it a few mo- 
ments.” 

The president cast an inquiring look at the 
judges, who all nodded affirmatively. 

The law was silent before the voice of Nature ; 
all waited noiselessly till the witness had quieted 
her child. 

And now the door of the witness-room opened, 
and upon the threshold was seen a woman’s 
figure, at whose unexpected appearance a cry of 
amazement rose from the lips of all the specta- 
tors on the tribune, and all eyes were aflame with 
curiosity. 

It was the queen — no one but the queen who 
was entering the hall ! 

It was her slim, fine figure, it was her fresh, 
young, rosy countenance, with the fair, charming 
oval of her delicately-tinted cheeks ; it was her 
finely-cut mouth, with the full, lower lips; there 
were her large, grayish-blue eyes ; her high fore- 
head ; her beautiful, chestnut-brown hair, arranged 
in exactly the manner that Leonard, the queen’s 
hair-dresser, was accustomed to dress hers. 
The rest of her toilet, also, was precisely like 
that of the queen when she appeared in the gar- 
dens of Versailles and dispensed with court eti- 
quette. A bright dress of light linen flowed down 
in long, broad folds over her beautiful figure ; 
her chest and the full shoulders were covered by 
a short white robe d V enfant^ and on the loftily 
dressed hair lay a white cap, trimmed with lace. 

Yes, it was the queen, as she had often been 
seen wandering up and down in the broad walks 
of Versailles ; and even the ladies on the tribune, 
who often enough had seen the monarch close at 
hand and had spoken with her, looked in aston- 
ishment at the entering figure, and whispered, 
“ It is she ! The queen herself is coming to give 
her evidence. What folly, what thoughtless- 
ness ! ” 

While all eyes were directed upon this unex* 


54 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


pected figure, no one had thought of the Countess 
Lamotte-Valois, no one had noticed how she 
shrank back, and then started from her seat, as 
if she wanted to fly from the horror which so 
suddenly confronted her. 

No, the officer who stood near her chair had 
noticed this movement, and with a quick and 
strong grasp seized her arm. 

“ What do you want, madame ? Why do you 
rise from your chair after being told to sit still, if 
you do not want to be chained ? ” 

At the touch of the officer, Lamotte had, as it 
appeared, regained her whole composure, and had 
conquered her alarm. 

“ I rose,” she said calmly, “ to pay my respects 
to the Queen of France, like a good subject ; but 
as I see that no one else stands up, and that they 
allow the queen to enter without rising from their 
seats, I will take mine again.” And the countess 
slowly sank into her chair. 

“ Come nearer,” cried President de L’Aigre to 
the royal personage; and she stepped forward, al- 
lowingher eyes to wander uncon strainedly through 
the hall, and then, as she approached the table, 
behind which the president and the judges sat, 
greeting them with a friendly nod and smile which 
caused her lips to part. Again there passed 
through the hall a wave of amazement, for now, 
when the lady opened her mouth, the first dissimi- 
larity to the queen appeared. Behind her cherry- 
red lips there were two rows ot poor, broken 
teeth, with gaps between them, whereas Marie 
-Sl^ntoinette had, on account of her faultless teeth, 
been the object of admiration and envy to all the 
ladies of her court. 

“ Who are you, madame, and what are you 
called ? ” asked the president. 

“Who am I, sir?” replied the lady, with a 
slight flush. “ Good Lord ! that is hard to an- 
swer. I was a light-minded and idle girl, that did 
not like to work, but did like to live well, and 
had no objection to dress, and led a tolerably easy 
life, till one day my heart was surprised by love. 
After being enamoured of my Sergeant George, I 
resolved to lead an honorable and virtuous life ; 
and since my little son was born I have tried to 


be merely a good mother and a good wife. Do 
you now want to know what I am called ? Down 
to the present time I am called Mademoiselle 
Oliva. You had me arrested in Brussels and 
brought here exactly nine days before the ap- 
pointed time of my marriage with my dear George. 
He had promised me that our child should be able 
to regard us as regularly married people, and he 
wanted to keep his promise, but you prevented 
him, and it is your fault that my dear li^le boy 
was born in prison, and that his father was not 
there to greet him. But you will confess that I 
am guilty of no crime, and then you will fulfil my 
wish, and give me a written certificate of my in- 
nocence — that is,” she corrected herself, blushing, 

“ of my innocence in this matter, that I may be 
able to justify myself to my son, when I have to 
tell him that he was born in prison. It is such a 
dreadful thing for a mother to have any thing 
that she is ashamed to confess to her child ! ” 

A murmur of applause ran through the hall, 
and the ladies upon the tribune looked with sym- 
pathy upon this fair wmman, whose, faithful love 
made her beautiful, and whose mother-feeling 
gave her dignity. 

“ So your name is Mademoiselle Oliva ? ” asked 
the president. 

“ Yes, sir, that unfortunately is the name I am 
called by,” answered she, sighing, “ but as soon 
as I leave the prison I shall be married, and then 
I shall be called Madame George. For my child’s 
sake, you would do me a great kindness now if 
you would call me madame.” 

At these naive words a smile lighted up the 
stern faces of the judges, and sped like a ray of 
sunlight over all the countenances of the specta- 
tors. Even the rigid features of the attorney-gen- 
eral were touched for an instant with the glow; 
only those of the Countess Lamotte darkened. 

“ Your majesty plays to-day the native part of 
paysanne perversee^''' cried she, wdth a hard, shrill 
voice. “ It is well known that your majesty loves 
to play comedies, and that you are sometimes 
content with oven the minor parts. Now, do not 
look at me, Mrs. Queen, wdth such a withering 
look. Do not forget that you are playing the o 


THE TRIAL. 


55 


part of Mademoiselle Oliva, and that you have 
come secretly from Versailles to save your honor 
and your diamonds.” 

‘‘ Officer,” cried the president, “ if the accused 
allows herself to speak a single word without be- 
ing asked, lock her up and gag her.” 

The officer bowed in token of his unconditional 
obedience, and drew out the wooden gag, which 
he showed the countess, going straight to her 
chair. 

“ I will comply with your wish,” said the presi- 
dent, turning to the living portrait of the queen. 
“ I will call you madame, if you will promise me 
in return to answer all my questions faithfully.” 

“ I promise you that, by my child,” answered 
Mademoiselle Oliva, bowing slightly. 

“ Tell me, then, do you know the person who 
sits in that chair ? ” 

Mademoiselle Oliva cast a quick look at La- 
motte, who glared at her from her seat. 

“ Oh, yes, I know her,” she said. “ That is, I 
do not know her name, I only know that she lives 
in a splendid palace, that she is very rich, and has 
every thing nice.” 

“ How do you know this lady ? Tell us that.” 

“ I will tell you, gentlemen, and I swear to you 
that so sure as I want to be an honorable wife, I 
will tell you the whole truth. I was walking one 
day in the Palais Royal, when a tall, slim, gentle- 
manly man, who had passed me several times, 
came up to me, said some soft things, and asked 
permission to visit me. I answered him, smiling, 
that he could visit me at once if he would take 
me into one of the eating-houses and dine with 
me. He accepted my proposition, and we dined 
together, and were merry and jolly enough for a 
new acquaintance. When we parted we promised 
to meet there again on the morrow, and so we did. 
After the second dinner, the amiable gentleman 
conducted me home, and there told me that he 
was very distinguished and influential, that he had 
friends at court, and was very well acquainted 
with the king and queen. He told me that he 
would procure for me powerful patrons, and told 
me that a very distinguished lady, who had inter- 
^ested herself in my behalf through his description. 


would visit me and make my acquaintance. On 
the next day he really came in company with a 
lady, who greeted me very friendly, and was as- 
tonished at her first glimpse of me.” 

“ Who was that lady ? ” asked the president. 

Mademoiselle pointed with her thumb over her 
shoulder. 

“ The lady yonder,” said she. 

“ Are you sure of it ? ” 

“ As of my own life, Mr. President.” 

“ Good. Go on. You saw the lady quite fre- 
quently ? ” 

“ Yes, she visited me twice more, and’ told me 
about the queen, and the splendid way they lived 
at the court; she promised me that she would 
bring me to the court and make a great lady out 
of me, if I would do what she wanted me to do. 

I promised it gladly, and declared myself ready 
to do every thing that she should order me, if she 
would keep her promise and bring me to the 
court, that I might speak with the king and the 
queen.” 

“But why were you so curious to go to the 
court and speak with the king and the queen ? ” 

“ Why ? Good Lord ! that is very simple and 
natural. It is a very easy thing for the king to 
make a captain out of a sergeant, and as the king, 
so people say, does nothing but what the queen 
tells him to, I wanted of course before every thing 
to have a good word from the queen. I should 
have liked to see my dear George wearing epau- 
lets, and it must have tremendously pleased my 
boy to have come into the world the child of a^ 
captain.” 

“ Did you tell that to the lady ? ” 

“ Certainly I told her, and she promised me 
that the queen would undoubtedly do me the favor, 
provided that I would do every thing that she 
bade me do in the name of the queen. She told 
me, then, that the queen had ordered her to seek 
a person suitable to play a part in a little comedy, 
which she was privately preparing; that I was 
just the person to play this part, and if I would 
do it well and tell nobody in the world, not even 
George, when he should come home from Brussels, 
she would not only give me her help in the futui’e, 


56 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


but pay me fifteen thousand francs for my assist- 
ance. I consented with great joy, of course, for 
fifteen thousand francs was a magnificent dowry 
for a marriage, and I was very happy in being 
able to earn so much without having to work very 
hard for it.” 

“ But did it not occur to you that that was a 
dangerous game that they wanted you to play, 
and for which they were going to pay such a high 
sum ? ” 

“ I did have such thoughts once in a while, but 
I suppressed them soon, so as not to be troubled 
about my good fortune ; and besides that, the 
countess assured me that every thing was done at 
the command of the queen, and that it was the 
queen who was going to pay the fifteen thousand 
francs. That quieted me completely, for as an 
obedient and true subject it was my duty to obey 
the queen, and show devotion to her in all 
things, more particularly when she was going to 
pay so magnificently. Meantime, I comforted 
myself that it could be nothing bad and criminal 
that the queen could order done, and the countess 
assured me that too, and told me that every thing 
I had to do was to represent another person, and 
to make a lover believe that he was with his love, 
which would, of course, please him immensely, 
and make him very happy. Besides, I did not 
think it any sin to do my part toward making an 
unfortunate lover have happy thoughts. I was 
very much pleased with this part, and made my 
plan to speak -*to him in very tender and loving 
'tones.” 

“ But were you not curious to know for whom 
you v/ere playing this part, and what lady you 
had to represent ? ” 

“ I should certainly have liked very much to 
know, but the countess forbade me to ask, and 
told me that I must suppress my curiosity ; and, 
on the other hand, make an effort to notice noth- 
ing at all, else I should receive only half of the 
money ; and, besides, if they noticed that I knew 
what I was doing, I might be sent to the Bastile. 
I was still upon that, and did not trouble myself 
about any thing further, and asked nothing more, 
and only thought of learning my lesson well, that 


I might get the fifteen thousand francs for my 
marriage portion.” 

“ So they gave you a lesson to learn ? ” 

“ Yes, the countess, and the gentleman who 
brought her to me, came twice to me, and taught 
me how I ought to walk, how to hold my head, 
to nod, and reach my hand to kiss. After teach- 
ing me this, they came one day and carried me in 
a splendid coach to the house of the countess. 
There I dined with them, and then w^e drove to 
Versailles. They walked with me in the park, 
and at a place near the pavilion they stood still, 
and said to me : ‘ Here is where you will play 
your little comedy to-morrow ; this is the spot 
which the queen has herself appointed, and every 
thing which takes place is at the express com- 
mand of her majesty.’ That entirely quieted me, 
and I turned back to Paris overjoyed, in company 
with the countess and her companion. They kept 
me that night in their beautiful home, and on the 
next day we drove again to Versailles, where the 
countess had a small suite of apartments. She 
herself dressed me, and condescended to help me 
like a waiting-maid.” 

“ What kind of a suit did she put upon you ? ” 

“ Exactly such a one as I am wearing to-day, 
only when we were ready, and it had begun to 
grow dark, the countess laid a white mantle over 
me, and covered my head with a cap. Then she 
drove me into the park, gave me a letter, and 
said : ‘You will give this letter to a gentleman 
who will meet us.’ We went in silence through 
the paths and alleys of the park, and I confess 
that my. heart beat right anxiously, and that I 
had to think a great deal upon the fifteen thou? 
sand francs, in order to keep my courage up.” 

“ Did you go with the countess alone, or was 
some one else with you ? ” 

“ The gentleman who first made my acquaint- 
ance, and who was, as I believe, the husband of 
the countess, accompanied us. After we had 
walked about for a while, he stopped and said : 

‘ Now you must walk alone ; I shall, however, be 
there at the right time to make a noise, and to 
put the amorous lover to flight.’ Then he stepped 
into the thicket, and we were alone. On this the^ 


THE TRIAL. 


51 


countess gave me a rose, and said : ‘You will give 
this rose with the letter to the person, and say 
nothing more than this. You know what that 
signifies.’ The countess made me repeat that 
three times, and then said : ‘You need not add 
a single w^ord to that. The queen herself has 
selected these words, and she will hear whether 
you repeat them correctly, for she will stand be- 
hind you, and be a spectator of the whole scene.’ 
On this the countess withdrew, leading me into a 
thicket, and soon the gentleman came, and I came 
out of the place of my concealment.' After he 
had made me some very deep reverences, I handed 
him the rose and the letter, and repeated the very 
words the countess had taught me. The gentle- 
man sank upon his knee, and kissed the hand 
which I extended with the rose. At this moment 
we heard a noise, as if of men’s steps approach- 
ing, and the countess came running up. ‘ For 
God’s sake ! ’ she cried, ‘ we are watched ! Quick, 
quick, come!’ and she drew me hurriedly away. 
We left the garden, and returned to the dwelling 
of the countess, and there I remained alone, for 
the countess and her husband said, laughing, 
that they must go and console the old gentleman 
for having so short a rendezvous, and for dyeing 
so quickly disturbed. I asked whether I had 
done my part well, and the countess said that the 
queen was very well satisfied with me — that she 
had stood in the thicket, and had observed all. 
Early next morning we rode back to Paris, and 
when we had arrived at their hotel, the countess 
paid me the fifteen thousand francs all correctly ; 
but she made this condition, that I must go to 
see my George as soon as possible, and that till I 
should go, I must remain in a little room in her 
house. I wrote at once to George and announced 
my coming, and the time seemed endless till I re- 
ceived his answer, although the countess paid a 
great deal of attention to me, and always invited 
me to her petiis soupers, where we had a right 
merry time. As soon as the answer had come 
from my George, who wrote me that he was ex- 
pecting me, I took my departure in an elegant 
post-carriage, like a lady ; for the countess w'as 
not willing that I ’should travel in a diligence, and 


her husband had paid in advance for all relays of 
horses as far as Brussels, so that I had a very 
agreeable, comfortable ride. And this, I think, 
is all that I have to relate, and my son will not 
have an unquiet night, for I have kept my word, 
and told every thing truthfully.” 

“You have nothing to add to this ? ” 

“What could I add to this?” asked Oliva, 
sighing. “ You know as well as I the end of my 
history. You know, that a fortnight after that 
little scene at Yersailles, I was arrested by police 
agents in Brussels, and brought to Paris. You 
know, also, that I sw^ore to take my life if my 
dear George were not allowed to visit me daily in 
prison. You know that my dear child was born 
in prison, and that it is now half a year old, while 
his poor mother is accused, and not yet gained 
her freedom. You know that all ! What have I 
that I could add to this ? I beg yon, let me go 
and return to my child, for my little George is 
certainly awake, and his father does not know 
how to quiet him when he cries.” 

“ You may go to your child,” said the presi- 
dent, with a gentle smile. “ Officer, conduct 
Madame Oliva back to the witness-room.” 

Madame Oliva expressed her thanks for this 
by throwing a kiss of the hand to the president 
and the judges, and then hastily followed the offi- 
cer, who opened the door of the adjoining room. 
As it swung back, a loud cry of a child was heard, 
and Madame Oliva, who was standing upon the 
threshold, turned her fair face back to the presi- 
dent with a triumphant expression, and smiled. 

“ Did I not tell you so ? ” she cried. “ My son 
is calling, for he is longing for me. I am coming, 
my little George, I am coming 1 ” 

She sprang forward, and the door closed behind 
her. 

“You have heard the statements of the wit- 
ness,” said the president, addressing Countess 
Lamotte. “ You see now that we have the proof 
of the ignominious and treacherous intrigues which 
you have conducted. ' Will you, in the face of 
such proofs, still endeavor to deny the facts which 
have been given in evidence ? ” 

“I have seen neither proofs nor facts,” an- 


68 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


swered Lamotte, scornfully. “ I have only been 
amazed at the self-possession with which the 
queen goes through her part, and wondered how 
far her light-mindedness will carry her. She is 
truly an adroit player, and she has played the part 
of Madame Oliva so well, that not a motion nor a 
tone would have betrayed the queen.” 

“How, madame ? ” asked the president, in 
amazement. “ Do you pretend to assert that this 
witness, who has just left the hall, is not Madame 
Oliva, but another person? Do you not know 
that this witness, this living portrait of the queen, 
has for ten months been detained at the Bastile, 
and that no change in the person is possible ? ” 

“ I only know that the queen has played her 
part well,” said Lamotte, shrugging her shoul- 
ders. “ She has even gone so far, in her desire 
to show a difference between Madame Oliva and 
the queen, as to make a very great sacrifice, and 
to disclose a secret of her beauty. She has laid 
aside her fine false teeth, and let us see her nat- 
ural ones, in order that we may see a difference 
between the queen and Madame Oliva. Confess 
only, gentlemen, that it is a rare and comical 
sight to have a queen so like a courtesan, that 
you can only distinguish the one from the other 
by the teeth.” 

And the countess broke out into scornful laugh- 
ter, which found a loud echo in some of the veiled 
ladies in the tribune. 

“ Moderate your pleasantry, madame,” com- 
manded the president. “ Remember that you 
are in a grave and perilous situation, and that 
justice hangs^ over you like the sword of Dam- 
ocles. You have already invoked your fate, in 
calling God to witness that the innocent shall not 
suffer for the guilty, and now this word is fulfilled 
in yourself. The whole edifice of your lies and 
intrigues crumbles over you, and will cover your 
head with the dust of eternal infamy.” 

“ I experience nothing of it yet, God be 
thanked,” cried Lamotte, shrugging her shoul- 
ders. 

“ You will be punished for these shameless deeds 
sooner than you expected,” answered the president, 
solemnly. “You said that you wanted proof that 


that was not the queen who gave the rendezvous 
to the cardinal in Versailles ; that the promissory 
note was not subscribed by the queen, and that 
the letters to the cardinal were not written by 
her. If the proof of this were to be displayed to 
you, it would be right to accuse you of high- 
treason. We have already exhibited the proof 
that it was not Queen Marie Antoinette who 
made an appointment with the cardinal in Ver- 
sailles, but that it was the comedy planned and 
brought out by yourself, with which you deceived 
the cardinal, and made him believe that he was 
going to buy the necklace of which you intended 
to rob him. It only remains to show you that 
the subscription of the queen and the letters to 
the cardinal were forged by you.” 

“And certainly,” cried the countess, “I am 
very curious to have you exhibit the proofs of 
this ! ” 

“ That is a very simple matter,” answered the 
president, calmly. “ We confront you with him 
who at your direction imitated the handwriting 
of the queen and wrote the letters. Officer, sum- 
mon the last witness ! ” 

The officer threw open the door which led to 
the next room. A breathless silence prevailed in 
the great haU ; every one was intensely eager to 
see this last witness who was to uncover the web 
of frauds of the countess’s spinning. The great 
burning eyes of the accused, too, were turned to 
this door, and her compressed lips and her pier- 
cing glance disclosed a little of the anxiety of her 
soul, although her bearing and manner were still 
impudent and scornful. 

And now the door opened, and a cry of amaze- 
ment and rage broke from the lips of the countess. 

“ Retaux de Vilette,” cried she madly, doubling 
up her little hands into fists and extending them 
toward the man who now entered the hall 
“ Shameful, shameful ! He has turned against 
me!” 

And losing for a moment her composure, she 
sank back upon the seat from which she had 
risen in her fright. A deathly paleness covered 
her cheeks, and, almost swooning, she rested her 
head on the back of the chair. 


THE TRIAL. 


59 


“ You now see that God is just,” said the pres- 
ident, after a brief pause. “ Your own conscience 
testifies against you and compels you to confess 
yourself guilty.” 

She sprang up and compelled herself to resume 
her self-possessed manner, and to appear cool and 
defiant as before. “ No ! ” she said, “ I do not 
confess myself guilty, and I have no reason to ! 
My heart only shuddered when I saw this man 
enter, whom I have saved from hunger, over- 
whelmed with kindness, and whom my enemies 
have nOw brought up to make him testify against 
me ! But it is over — I am now ready to see new 
lies, new infamies heaped upon me : M. Retaux 
de Yilette may now speak on, his calumnies will 
only drop from the undented mail of my con- 
science ! ” 

And with possessed bearing and an air of 
proud scorn, Countess Lamotte looked at the man 
who, bowing and trembling, advanced by the side 
of the officer to the green table, and sedulously 
shunned meeting the eyes of Lamotte, which 
rested on him like two fiery daggers. 

The president propounded the usual questions 
as to name and rank. He answered that his name 
was Retaux de Yilette, and that he was steward 
and secretary of the Countess Lamotte-Yalois. 
On further questioning, he declared that after the 
count and the countess had been arrested he had 
fled, and had gone to Geneva in order to await the 
end of the trial. But as it lingered so long, he 
had attempted to escape to England, but had 
been arrested. 

Why do you wish to escape ? ” asked the 
attorney-general. 

“ Because I feared being involved in the affairs 
of the Countess Lamotte,” answered Retaux de 
Yilette, in low tones. 

“ Say rather you knew that you would be in- 
volved with them. You have at a previous ex- 
amination deposed circumstantially, and you can- 
not take back what you testified then, for your 
denial would be of no avail. Answer, therefore : 
What have you done ? Why were you afraid of 
being involved in the trial of Countess Lamotte ? ” 

“ Because I had done a great wrong,” answered 


Retaux, with vehemence. “Because I had al- 
lowed myself to be led astray by the promises, the 
seductive arts, the deceptions of the countess. I 
was poor ; !• lived unseen and unnoticed, and I 
wished to be rich, honored, and distinguished. 
The countess promised me all this. She would 
persuade the cardinal to advance me to honor ; 
she would introduce me to the court, and through 
her means I should become rich and sought after. 
I believed all this, and like her devoted slave I 
did all that she asked of me.” 

“ Slavish soul ! ” cried the countess, with an ex- 
pression of unspeakable scorn. 

“ What did the countess desire of you ? ” asked 
the president. “What did you do in her ser- 
vice ? ” 

“ I wrote the letters which were intended for 
the cardinal,” answered Retaux de Yilette. “ The 
countess composed them, and I wrote them in the 
handwriting of the queen.” 

“ How did you know her handwriting ? ” 

“ The countess gave me a book in which a let- 
ter of the queen’s was printed in exact imitation 
of her hand. I copied the letters as nearly as I 
could, and so worked out my sentences.” 

“ He lies, he lies ! ” cried the countess, w’ith a 
fierce gesture. 

“ And how w^as it with the promissory note to 
the jewellers, Bohraer and Bassenge ? Bo you 
know about that ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Retaux, with a sigh, “ I do 
know about it, for I wrote it at the direction of 
the countess, and added the signature.” 

“ Had you a copy ? ” 

“ Yes, the signature of the fac-simile.” 

“ In the printed letter was there the subscrip- 
tion which you inserted.” 

“ No, there was only the name ‘ Marie Antoi- 
nette,’ nothing further ; but the countess thought 
that this was only a confidential way of writing 
her name, as a daughter might use it in a letter to 
a mother (it was a letter written by the queen to 
her mother), but that in a document of a more 
business-like character there must be an official 
signature. We had a long discussion about it, 
which resulted in our coming to the conclusion 


60 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


that the proper form would be ‘ Marie Antoinette 
of France.’ So I practised this'^ several times, and 
finally wrote it on the promissory note.” 

“ He lies ! ” cried the countess, stamping on the 
floor. “ He is a born liar and slanderer.” 

“I am prepared to show the proof at once 
that I speak the truth,” said Retaux de Yilette. 
“ If you will give me writing-materials I will write 
the signature of the queen in the manner in which 
it is written on the promissory note.” 

The president gave the order for the requisite 
articles to be brought and laid on a side-table. 
Retaux took the pen, and with a rapid hand wrote 
some words, which he gave to the officer to be 
carried to the president. 

The latter took the paper and compared it with 
the words which were written on the promissory 
note. He then passed the two to the attorney- 
general, and he to the judge next to him. The 
papers passed from hand to hand, and, after they 


came back to the president again, he rose from 
his seat : 

“I believe that the characters on this paper 
precisely accord with those on the note. The 
witness has given what seems to me irrefutable 
testimony that he was the writer of that signa- 
ture, as well as of the letters to the cardinal. He 
was the culpable instrument of the criminal La- 
motte-Valois. Those of the judges who are of 
my opinion will rise.” 

The judges arose as one man. 

The countess uttered a loud cry and fell, seized 
with fearful spasms, to the ground. 

“ I declare the investigation and hearings end- 
ed,” said the president, covering his head. “ Let 
the accused and the witnesses be removed, and 
the spectators’ tribune be vacated. We will ad- 
journ to the council-room to prepare the sentence, 
which will be given to-morrow.” 


BOOK 


II. 


CHAPTER VII. 

::he bad omen. 

The day was drawing to a close. That end- 
lessly long day, that 31st of August, I'TSB, was 
coming to a conclusion. All Paris had awaited it 
with breathless excitement, with feverish impa- 
tience. No one had been able to attend to his 
business. The stores were closed, the workshops 
of the artisans were empty ; even in the restau- 
rants and cafh all was still ; the cooks had nothing 
to do, and let the fire go out, for it seemed as if 
all Paris had lost its appetite — as if nobody had 
time to eat. 

And in truth, on this day, Paris had no hunger 
for food that could satisfy the body. The city 
was hungry only for news, it longed for food which 
would satisfy its curiosity. 

And the news which would appease its craving 
was to come from the court-room of the prison ! 
It was to that quarter that Paris looked for the 
stilling of its hunger, the satisfying of its desires. 

The judges were assembled in the hall of the 
prison to pronounce the decisive sentence in the 
necklace trial, and to announce to all France, yes, 
all Europe, whether the Queen of France was in- 
nocent in the eyes of God and His representatives 
on earth, or wdiether a shade of suspicion was 
thenceforth to rest upon that lofty brow ! 

At a very early hour of the morning, half-past 
five, the judges of the high court of Parliament, 
forty-nine in number, gathered at the council- 
room in order to pronounce sentence. 

At the same early hour, an immense, closely- 


thronged crowd gathered in the broad square in 
front of the prison, and gazed in breathless ex- 
pectation at the great gate of the building, hoping 
every minute that the judges would come out, and 
that they should learn the sentence. 

But the day wore on, and still the gates re- 
mained shut ; no news came from the council- 
room to enlighten the curiosity of the crowd that 
filled the square and the adjacent streets. 

Here and there the people began to complain, and 
loud voices were heard grumbling at the protracted 
delay, the long deliberations of the judges. Here 
and there faces were seen full of scornful defiance, 
full of laughing malice, working their way through 
the crowd, and now and then dropping stinging 
words, which provoked to still greater impatience. 
All the orators of the clubs and of the secret 
societies were there among the crowd, all the se- 
cret and open enemies of the queen had sent their 
instruments thither to work upon the people with 
poisonous words and mocking observations, and 
to turn public opinion in advance against the 
queen, even in case the judges did not condemn 
her ; that is, if they did not declare the cardina: 
innocent of conspiracy against the sovereign, and 
contempt of the majesty of the queen. 

It was known that in his remme^ the attorney- 
general had alluded to the punishment of the 
cardinal. That was the only news which had 
worked its way out of the court-room. Some fa- 
vored journalist, or some friend of the queen, had 
heard this ; it spread like the wind all over Paris, 
and in thousands upon thousands of copies the 
words of the attorney-general were distributed. 


62 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


His address purported to run as follows : that 
“ Cardinal de Rohan is indicted on the accu- 
sation, and must answer the Parliament and 
the attorney-general respecting the following 
charges: of audaciously mixing himself up wdth 
the affairs of the necklace, and still more auda- 
ciously in supposing that the queen would make 
an appointment with him by night ; and that for 
this he would ask the pardon of the king and the 
queen in presence of the whole court. Further, 
the cardinal is enjoined to lay down his office as 
grand almoner within a certain time, to remove 
to a certain distance from the royal residence and 
not to visit the places where the royal family may 
be living, and lastly, to remain in prison till the 
complete termination of the trial.” 

The friends and dependants of the cardinal, the 
enemies and persecutors of the queen, received 
this decision of the attorney-general wdth vexa- 
tion and anger ; they found fault with the servil- 
ity of the man who would suffer the law to bow 
before the throne ; they made dishonorable re- 
marks and calumnious innuendoes about the queen, 
who, with her coquetry and the amount received 
from the jewels, had gained over the judges, and 
who would perhaps have appointed a rendezvous 
with every one of them in order to gain him over 
to her side. 

“Even if the judges clear her,” cried the sharp 
voice of Marat from the heart of the crowd, “the 
people will pass sentence upon her. The people 
are always right ; the people cannot be bribed — 
they are like God in this ; and the people will not 
disown their verdict before the beautiful eyes and 
the seductive smiles of the Austrian woman. The 
people will not be made fools of ; they will not be- 
lieve in the story of the counterfeited letters and 
the forged signature.” 

“No,” shouted the crowd, laughing in derision, 
“ we will not believe it. The queen wrote the 
letters ; her majesty ^understands how to write 
love-letters ! ” 

“ The queen loves to have a hand in all kinds 
of nonsense,” thundered the brewer Santerre, in 
another group. “She wmnted to see whether a 
pretty girl from the street could play the part of 


the Queen of France, and at the same time she 
wanted to avenge herself upon the cardinal be- ■ 
cause she knew that he once found fault with her 
before her mother the empress, on account of ' 
her light and disreputable behavior, and the bad ' 
maimers which, as the dauphiness, she would in- ; 
troduce into this court. Since then she has with 
her glances, her smiles, and her apparent anger, , 
so worked upon the cardinal as to make him fall ’ 
over ears in love with the beautiful, pouting : 
queen. And that was just what she wanted, for * 
now she could avenge herself. She appointed a J 
rendezvous with the cardinal, and while she se- i 

cretly looked on the scene in the thicket, she al- j 

* 

lowed the pretty Mademoiselle Oliva to play her # 
part. And you see that it is not such a difficult f 
thing to represent a queen, for Mademoiselle Oliva | 
performed her part so well that the cardinal was 1 
deceived, and took a girl from the streets to be 
the Queen of France.” S 

“ Oh, better times are coming, better times are I 
coming ! ” cried Simon the cobbler, who was close I 
by, with his coarse laugh. “ The cardinal took a n 
girl from the streets for the Queen of France ; but S 
wait a little and we shall see the time when she jj 
will have to sweep the streets with a broom, that jn 
the noble people may walk across with dry feet ! ” IJ 
In the loud laugh with which the crowd greeted || 
this remark of the cobbler, was mingled one sin- 8 
gle cry of anger, which, however, wms overborneffl' 
by the rough merriment of the mass. It cameM 
from the lips of a man in simple citizen’s cos- 
tume, who had plunged into the mob and workedj^il 
his way forward with strong arms, in order to ■ ' 
reach a place as near as possible to the enH 
trance-door of the prison, and to be among the|| 
first to learn the impending sentence. 

No one, as just said, had heard this cry ; no#4 
one had troubled himself about this young man,^n 
with the bold defiant face, who, wdth shrugged J 
shoulders, was listening to the malicious speechesTw 
which were uttered all around him, and who replied j 
to them all with ffaming looks of anger, press- | 
ing his lips closely together, in order to hold back 
the w’ords which could hardly be suppressed. , 
He succeeded at last in reaching the very door ; 


THE BxiD OMEN. 


63 


of the prison, and stood directing his eyes thither 
with gloomy looks of curiosity. 

His whole soul lay in this look ; he heard 
nothing of the mocking speeches which echoed 
around him ; he saw nothing of what took place 
about him. He saw only this fatal door ; he only 
heard the noises which proceeded from within the 
prison. 

At last, after long waiting, and when the sun 
had set, the door opened a little, and a man came 
out. The people who, at his appearance, had 
broken into a loud cry .of delight, were silent 
when it was seen that it vras not the officer who 
would announce the verdict with his stentorian 
voice, but that it was only one of the ordinary 
servants of the court, who had been keeping 
watch at the outer gate. 

This man ascended with an indifferent air the 
steps of the staircase, and to the loud questions 
which were hurled at him by the crowd, whether 
the cardinal were declared innocent, he answered 
quietly, “ I do not know. But I think the officer 
will soon make his appearance. My time is up, 
and I am going home, for I am half dead with 
hunger and thirst.” 

“ Let the poor hungry man go through,” cried 
the young man, pressing up to him. “ Only see 
how exhausted he is. Come, old fellovv, give me 
your hand ; support yourself on me.” 

And he took the man by the arm, and with his 
powerful elbows forced a way through the crowd. 
The people let them pass, and directed their at- 
tention again to the door of the prison. 

“ The verdict is pronounced ? ” asked the young 
man, softly. 

“ Yes, Mr. Toulan,” he whispered, “ the coun- 
cillor gave me just now, as I was handing him a 
glass of water, the paper on which he had writ- 
ten it.” 

“ Give it to me, John, but so that nobody can 
see ; otherwise they will suspect what the paper 
contains, and they will all grab at it and tear it in 
bits.” 

The servant slid, with a quick motion, a little 
folded paper into the hand of the young man, 
who thanked him for it with a nod and a smile, 


and then quickly dropped his arm, and forced his 
way in another direction through the crowd. Soon, 
thanks to his youth and his skill, he had worked 
through the dense mass ; then with a flying step 
he sped through the street next to the square, 
then more swiftly still through the side streets 
and alleys, till he reached the gate that led out to 
the street of Versailles. Outside of this tliere 
was a young man in a blue blouse, who, in an 
idle and listless manner, was leading a bridled 
horse up and down the road. 

“ Halloo, Richard, come here ! ” cried the young 
man. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Toulan,” shoutea the lad in the 
blouse, running up with the horse. “ You have 
come at last, Mr. Toulan. I have been already 
waiting eight hours for you.” 

“ I wdll give you a franc for every hour,” said 
Mr. Toulan, swinging himself into the saddle. 
“ Now go home, Richard, and greet my sweet- 
heart, if you see her.” 

He gave his horse a smart stroke, pressed the 
spurs into his flanks, and the powerful creature 
sped like an arrow from a bow along the road to 
Versailles. 

In Versailles, too, and in the royal palace, this 
day had been awaited with anxious expectations. 
The king, after ending his daily duties with his 
ministers,' had gone to his workshop in order to 
work wdth his locksmith, Girard, upon a new lock, 
whose skilful construction was an invention of the 
king. 

The queen, too, had not left her room the whole 
day, and even her friend, the Duchess Julia de 
Polignac, had not been able to cheer up the 
queen by her pleasant talk. 

At last, when she saw that all her efforts were 
vain, and that nothing could dissipate the sadness 
of the queen, the duchess had made the proposi- 
tion to go to Trianon, and there to call together 
the circle of her intimate friends. 

But the queen sorrowfully shook her head, and 
gazed at the duchess with a troubled look. 

“ You speak of the circle of my friends,” she 
said. “ Ah ! the circle of those whom I consid- 
ered my friends is so rent and broken, that scarce* 


64 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


ly any torn fragments of it remain, and I fear to 
bring them together again, for I know that what 
once is broken cannot be mended again.” 

“And so does your majesty not believe in 
your friends any more ? ” asked the duchess, re- 
proachfully. “ Do you doubt us ? Do you doubt 
me ? ” 

“ I do not doubt you all, and, before all things 
else, not you^l said Marie Antoinette, with a lin- 
gering, tender look. “ I only doubt the possibil- 
ity of a queen’s having faithful friends. I always 
forgot, when I was with my friends, that I was 
the queen, but they never forgot it.” 

“ Madame, they ought never to forget it,” re- 
plied the duchess, softly. “ With all their love 
for your majesty, your friends ought never to for- 
get that reverence is due you as much as love, 
and subjection as much as friendship. They 
ought never to make themselves your majesty’s 
equals ; and if your majesty, in the grace of your 
fair and gentle heart, designs to condescend to us 
and make yourself like us, yet we ought never 
to be so thoughtless as to raise ourselves to 
you, and want to make ourselves the equals of 
our queen.” 

“ Oh, Julia 1 you pain me — you pain me un- 
speakably,” sighed Marie Antoinette, pressing 
her hand to her heart, as if she wanted to keep 
back the tears which would mount into her eyes. 

“ Your majesty knows,” continued the duchess, 
with her gentle, and yet terribly quiet manner, 
“ your majesty knows how modestly I make use 
of the great confidence which you most graciously 
bestow upon me ; how seldom and how trembling- 
ly my lips venture to utter the dear name of my 
queen, of whom I may rightly talk only in inti- 
mate converse with your exalted mother and your 
royal husband. Your majesty knows further — ” 

“ Oh ! I know all, all,” interrupted the queen, 
sadly. “ I know that it is not the part of a queen 
to be happy, to love, to be loved, to have friends. 
I know that you all, whom I have so tenderly 
loved, feel yourselves more terrified than bene- 
fited ; I know, that with this confession, happi- 
ness has withdrawn from me. I look into the 
future and see the dark clouds which are descend- 


ing, and threatening us with a tempest. I see 
all ; I have no illusions more. The fair days are 
all past — the sunshine of Trianon, .and the fra- 
grance of its flowers.” 

“ And will your majesty not go there to-day ? ” 
asked the duchess. “It is such beautiful weather, 
the sun shines so splendidly, and we shall have 
such a glorious sunset.” 

“ A glorious sunset ! ” repeated Marie Antoi- 
nette, with a bitter smile. “ A queen is at least 
allowed to see the sun go down ; etiquette has 
not forbidden a queen to see the sun set and 
night approach. But the poor creature is not al- 
lowed to see the sun rise, and rejoice in the beauty 
of the dawn. I have once, since I was a queen, 
seen the sun rise, and all the world cried ‘Mur- 
der,’ and counted it a crime, and all France 
laughed at the epigrams and jests with which my 
friends punished me for the crime that the queen 
of France, with her court, had seen the sun rise. 
And now you want to allow me to see it set, but 
I will not ; I wdll not look at this sad spectacle 
of coming night. In me it is night, and I feel the 
storms which are drawing nigh. Go, Julia, leave 
me alone, for you can see that there is nothing to 
be done with me to-day. I cannot laugh, I can- 
not be merry. Go, for my sadness might infect 
you, and that would make me doubly sad.” 

The duchess did not reply; she only made a 
deep reverence, and went with light, inaudible 
step over the carpet to the door. The queen’s 
face had been turned away, but as the light sound 
of the door struck her ear, she turned quickly ; 
around and saw that she was alone. i 

“ She has left me — she has really gone,” sighed ' 
the queen, bitterly. “ Oh ! she is like all the 
rest, she never loved me. But who does love 
me ? ” asked she, in despair. “ Who is there in c 
the world that loves me, and forgets that I am y 
the queen? My God! my heart cries for love,^j 
yearns for friendship, and has never found them, 
And they make this yearning of mine a crime ; ‘ 
they accuse me that I have a heart. 0 my | 
God ! have pity upon' me. Yeil at least my eyes, ‘3 
that I may not see the faithlessness of my friends. 
Sustain at least my faith in the friendship of my I 


THE BAD OMEN. 


06 


Julia. Let me not have the bitterness of feeling 
that I am alone, inconsolably alone.” 

She pressed her hands before her face, and 
sank upon a chair, and sat long there, motion- 
less, and wholly given over to her sad, bitter feel- 
ings. 

After a long time she let her hands fall from 
her face, and looked around with a pained, con- 
fused look. The sun had gone do’wn, it began to 
grow dark, and Marie Antoinette shuddered with- 
in herself. 

“ By this time the sentence has been pro- 
nounced,” she muttered, softly. “ By this time 
it is known whether the Queen of France can be 
slandered and insulted with impunity. Oh ! if I 
only could be sure. Did not Campan say — I will 
go to Campan.” And the queen rose quickly, 
went with a decisive step out of her cabinet ; 
then through the toilet-room close by, and opened 
the door which led to the chamber of her first 
lady-in-waiting, Madame de Campan. 

Madame de Campan stood at the window, and 
gazed with such a look of intense expectation out 
into the twilight, that she did not notice the en- 
trance of the queen till the latter called her loudly 
by name. 

“The queen!” cried she, ^drawing back terri- 
fied from the window. “ The queen 1 and — here, 
in my room ! ” 

Marie Antoinette made a movement of impa- 
tience.’ “ You want to say that it is not becom- 
ing for a queen to enter the room of her trusted 
waiting-maid, that it is against etiquette. I know 
that indeed, but these are days, my good Cam- 
pan, when etiquette has no power over us, and 
when, behind the royal purple, the poor human 
heart, in all its need, comes into the foreground. 
This is such a day for me, and as I know you are 
true, I have come to you. Did you not tell me, 
Campan, that you should receive the news as soon 
as the sentence was pronounced ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, I do hope to, and that is 
the reason why I am standing at the window look- 
ing for my messenger.” 

“ How curious 1” said the queen, thoughtfully. 
“ They call me Queen of France, and yet I have 


no one who hastens to give me news of this im- 
portant affair, while my waiting-maid has devoted 
friends, who do for her what no one does for the 
queen.” 

“ I beg your majesty’s pardon,” answered Mad 
ame de Campan, smiling. “ What they do to-day 
for me, they do only because I am the waiting- 
maid of the queen. I was yesterday at Councillor 
Bugeaud’s, in order to pay my respects to the 
family after a long interval, for his wife is a 
cousin of mine.” 

“That means,” said the queen, with a slight 
smile, “ that you went there, not to visit your 
cousin, the councillor’s wife, but to visit the 
councillor himself. Now confess, my good Cam- 
pan, you wanted to do a little bribery.” 

“ Well, I confess to your majesty, I wanted to 
see if it was really true that Councillor Bugeaud 
has gone over to the enemy. Your majesty knows 
that Madame de Marsan has visited all the coim- 
cillors, and adjured them by God and the Holy 
Church, not to condemn the cardinal, but to de- 
clare him innocent.” 

“ That is, they will free the cardinal that I may 
be condemned,” said the queen, angrily. “For 
to free him is the same as to accuse me and have 
my honor tarnished.” 

“ That was what I was saying to my cousin. 
Councillor Bugeaud, and happily I found support- 
ers in his own family. Oh, I assure your ma- 
jesty that in this family there are those who are 
devoted, heart and soul, to your majesty.” 

“Who are these persons?” asked the queen. 
“ Name them to me, that in my sad hours I may 
remember them.” 

“ There is, in the first place, the daughter of 
the councillor, the pretty Margaret, who is so en- 
thusiastic for your majesty that she saves a part 
of her meagre pocket-money that she may ride 
over to Versailles at every great festival to see 
your majesty; and then particularly there is the 
lover of this little person, a young man named 
Toulan, a gifted, fine young fellow, who almost 
worships your majesty — he is the one who prom- 
ised me to bring news at once after the sentence 
is pronounced, and it is more owing to his elo* 


5 


66 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


quence than to mine that Councillor Bugeaud saw 
the necessity of giving his vote against the cardi- 
nal and putting himself on the right side.” 

At this instant the door which led into the 
antechamber was hastily flung open, and a lackey 
entered. 

“ The gentleman whom you expected has just 
arrived,” he announced. 

“It is Mr. Toulan,” whispered Madame de 
Campan to the queen ; “ he brings the sentence. 
Tell the gentleman,” she then said aloud to the 
lackey, “ to wait a moment in the antechamber ; 
I will receive him directly. Go, I beg your ma- 
jesty,” she continued as the lackey withdrew, 
“I beg your majesty to graciously allow me to 
receive the young man here.” 

“That is to say, my dear Campan,” said the 
queen, smiling, “ to vacate the premises and leave 
the apartment. But I am not at all inclined to, 
I prefer to remain here. I want to see this young 
man of whom you say that he is such a faithful 
friend, and then I should like to know the news 
as soon as possible that he brings. See here, the 
chimney-screen is much taller than I, and if I go 
behind, the young man will have no suspicion of 
my presence, especially as it is dark. Now let 
him come in. I am most eager to hear the news.” 

The queen quickly stepped behind the high 
screen, and Madame Campan opened the door of 
the antechamber. 

“ Come in, Mr. Toulan,” she cried, and at once 
there appeared at the open door the tall, powerful 
figure of the young mao. His cheeks were heated 
with the quick ride, his eyes glowed, and his 
breathing was rapid and hard. 

Madame Campan extended her hand to him 
and greeted him with a friendly smile. “ So you 
have kept your word, Mr. Toulan,” she said. “ You 
bring me the news of the court’s decision ? ” 

“Yes, madame, I do,” he answered softly, and 
with a touch of sadness. “ I am only sorry that 
you have had to wait so long, but it is not my 
fault.- It was striking eight from the tower of 
St. Jacques when I received the news.” 

“ Eight,” asked Madame de Campan, looking at 
the clock, “ it is now scarcely nine. You do not 


mean to say that you have ridden the eighteen 
miles from Paris to Yersailles in an hour ? ” 

“ I have done it, and I assure you that is noth- 
ing wonderful. I had four fresh horses stationed 
along the road, and they were good ones. I fan- 
cied myself sometimes a bird flying through the 
air, and it seems to me now as if I had flown. 

I beg your pardon if I sit down in your presence, 
for my feet tremble a little.” 

“Do sit down, my dear young friend,” cried 
Campan, and she hastened herself to place an 
easy-chair for the young man. 

“ Only an instant,” he said, sinking into it. 
“But believe me it is not the quick ride that 
makes my feet tremble, but joy and excitement. 

I shall perhaps have the pleasure to have done 
the queen a little service, for you told me that it 
would be very important for her majesty to learn 
the verdict as quickly as possible, and no one has 
got here before me, has there ? ” 

“No, my friend, the queen v/ill learn the news 
first through your means, and I shall say to her 
majesty that I have learned it through you.” 

“No, madame,” he cried, quickly, “no, I would 
much rather you would not tell the queen, for 
who knows whether the news is good, or whether 
it would not trouble the noble heart of the queen, 
and then my name, if she should learn it, would 
only be disagreeable to her — rather that she 
should never hear it than that it should be con- 
nected with unpleasant associations to her.” 

“ Then you do not know what the sentence is ? ” 
replied Campan, astonished. “Have you come 
to bring me the sentence, and yet do not know 
yourself what it is ? ” ^ 

“I do not know v/hat it is, madame. The 
councillor, the father of my sweetheart, has sent 
it by me in writing, and I have not allowed my- | 
self to take time to read it. Perhaps, too, I was 
too cowardly for it, for if I had seen that it con- J 
tained any thing that would trouble the queen, I 
should not have had courage to come here and 
deliver the paper to you. So I did not read it, 
and thought only of this, that I might perhaps 
save the queen a quarter of an hour’s disquiet 
and anxious expectation. Here, madame, is the 


THE BAD OMEK 


67 


paper which contains the sentence. Take it to 
her majesty, and may the God of justice grant 
that it contain nothing which may trouble the 
queen ! ” 

He stood up, and handed Madame de Campan 
a paper. “And now, madame,” he continued, 
“ allow me to retire, that I may return to Paris, 
for my sweetheart is expecting me, and, besides, 
they are expecting some disturbance in the city. 
I must go, therefore, to protect my house.” 

“ Go, my young friend,” said Madame de Cam- 
pan, warmly pressing his hand. “ Receive my 
heartiest thanks for your devotion, and be sure 
the queen shall hear of it. Farewell, farewell ! ” 

“Mo,” cried Marie Antoinette, emerging from 
behind the screen with a laugh, “ no, do not go, 
sir ! Remain to receive your queen’s thanks for 
the disinterested zeal which you have displayed 
for me this day.” 

“ The queen ! ” whispered Toulan, turning pale, 
“ the queen ! ” 

And falling upon his knee he looked at the 
queen with such an expression of rapture and ad- 
miration that Marie Antoinette was touched. 

“ I have much to thank you for, Mr. Toulan,” 
she said. “ Not merely that you are the bearer 
of important news — I thank you besides for con- 
vincing me that the Queen of France has faithful 
and devoted friends, and to know this is so cheer- 
ing to me that even if you bring me bad news, 
my sorrow will be softened by this knowledge. 
I thank you again, Mr. Toulan ! ” 

Toulan perceived that the queen was dismissing 
him ; he stood up and retreated to the door, his 
eyes fixed on the queen, and then, after opening 
the door, he sank, as it were, overcome by the 
storm of his emotions, a second time upon his 
knee, and folding his hands, raised his great, 
beaming eyes to heaven. 

“ God in heaven,” he said loudly and solemnly, 
“ I thank Thee for the joy of this hour. From 
this moment I devote myself to the service of my 
queen. She shall henceforth be the divinity whom 
I serve, and to whom I will, if I can avail any thing, 
freely offer my blood and life. This I swear, and 
God and the queen have heard my oath ! ” 


And without casting another glance at the 
queen, without saluting her, Toulan rose and soft- 
ly left the room, tightly closing the door after 
him. 

“ Singular,” murmured the queen, “ really sin- 
gular. When he took the oath a shudder passed 
through my soul, and something seemed to say to 
me that I should some time be veryimhappy, and 
that this young man should then be near me.” 

“ Your majesty is excited to-day, and so every 
thing seems to have a sad meaning,” said Madame 
de Campan, softly. 

• “ But the sentence, the sentence ! ” cried the 
queen. “ Give me the paper, I will read it my- 
self.” 

Madame de Campan hesitated. “Would your 
majesty not prefer to receive it in the presence of 
the king, and have it read by his majesty ? ” 

“No, no, Campan. If it is favorable, I shall 
have pleasure in carrying the good news to the 
king. If it is unfavora’ole, then I can collect my- 
self before I see him.” 

“ But it is so dark here now that it will be im- 
possible to read writing.” 

“ You are right, let us go into my sitting-room,” 
said the queen. “ The candles must be lighted 
there already. Come, Campan, since I am in- 
debted to you for this early message, you shall be 
the first to learn it. Come, Campan, go with 
me!” 

With a quick step the queen returned to her 
apartments, and entered her sitting-room, followed 
by Madams de Campan, whose countenance was 
filled with sad forebodings. 

The queen was right ; the candles had already 
been lighted in her apartments, and diffused a 
light like that of day throughout her large sitting- 
room. In the little porcelain cabinet, however, 
there was a milder light, as Marie Antoinette 
liked to have it when she was alone and sans cere- 
monial. The candles on the main chandelier 
were not lighted, and on the table of Sevres china 
and rosewood which stood before the divan were 
two silver candlesticks, each with two wax can- 
dles. These four were the only lidits in the 
apartment. 


68 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ Now, Campan,” said the queen, sinking into 
the arm-chair which stood before the table, near 
the divan, “ now give me the paper. But no, you 
would better read it to me — ^but exactly as it 
stands. You promise me that ? ” 

“ Your majesty has commanded, and I must 
obey,” said Campan, bowing. 

“ Read, read,” urged Marie Antoinette. “ Let 
me know the sentence.” 

Madame de Campan unfolded the paper, and 
went nearer to the light in order to see better. 
Marie Antoinette leaned forward, folded both 
hands in her lap, and looked at Campan with an 
expression of eager expectation. 

“ Read, read ! ” she repeated, with trembling 
lips. 

Madame de Campan bowed and read : 

“ First. — The writing, the basis of the trial, the 
note and signatures, are declared to be forged in 
imitation of the queen’s hand. 

“ Second. — Count Lamotte is sentenced in con- 
tumacion to the galleys for life. 

“ Third. — The woman Lamotte to be whipped, 
marked on both shoulders with the letter 0, and 
to be confined for life. 

‘‘Fourth. — Retaux de Yilette to be banished 
for life from France. 

“ Fifth. — Mademoiselle Oliva is discharged. 

“ Sixth. — The lord cardinal — ” 

“Well,” cried the queen, passionately, “why 
do you stammer, why do you tremble ? He has 
been discharged ; I know it already, for we are 
already at the names of the acquitted. Read on, 
Campan.” 

And Madame de Campan read on : 

“ The lord cardinal is acquitted from every 
charge, and is allowed to publish this acquittal.” 

“ Acquitted ! ” cried the queen, springing from 
her seat, “ acquitted ! Oh, Campan, what I feared 
is true. The Queen of France has become the 
victim of cabals and intrigues. The Queen of 
France in her honor, dignity, and virtue, is injured 
and wounded by one of her own subjects, and 
there is no punishment for him ; he is free. Pity 
me, Campan! But no, on the contrary, I pity 
you, I pity France ! If I can have no impartial 


judges in a matter which darkens my character, 
what can you, what can all others hope for, when 
you are tried in a matter which touches your hap- 
piness and honor ? I am sad, sad in my inmost 
soul, and it seems to me as if this instant were to 
overshadow my whole life ; as if the shades of 
night had fallen upon me, and — what is that? 

Did you blow out the light, Campan ? ” 

“ Your majesty sees that I am standing entirely 
away from the lights.” 

“ But only see,” cried the queen, “ one of the 
candles is put out ! ” 

“ It is true,” said Madame de Campan, looking 
at the light, over which a bluish cloud was yet 
hovering. “ The light is put out, but if your ma- 
jesty allows me, I — ” 

She was silent, and her bearing assumed the 
appearance of amazement and horror. 

The candle which had been burning in the 
other arm of the candlestick went out like the 
one before. 

The queen said not a word. She gazed with 
pale lips and wdde-opened eyes at both the lights, 
the last spark of which had just disappeared. 

“Will your majesty allow me to light the can- | 
dies again ? ” asked Madame de Campan, extend- - 
ing her hand to the candlestick. 

But the queen held her hand fast. “ Let them 
be,” she whispered, “ I want to see whether both 
the other lights — ” 

Suddenly she was convulsed, and, rising slowly 
from her arm-chair, pointed with silent amazement 
at the second candlestick. 

One of the two other lights had gone out. 

Only one was now burning, and dark shadows J 
filled the c'abinet. The one light faintly illumined | 
only the centre, and shone with its glare upon the 1 
pale, horrified face of the queen. 

“ Campan,” she whispered, raising her arm, and 
pointing at the single light which remained burn- 
ing, “ if this fourth light goes out like the other i 
three, it is a bad omen for me, and forebodes the i 
approach of misfortune.” 

At this instant the light fiared up and illumined 

* The very words of the queen. See “ M6moires de 
Madame de Campan,” vol. ii., p. 23. 


BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 


6a 


the room more distinctly, then its flame began to 
die away. 

One flare more and this light went out, and a 
deep darkness reigned in the cabinet. 

The queen uttered a loud, piercing cry, and 
sank in a swoon. 


CHAPTER yill. 

BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 

The wedding guests were assembled. Madame 
Bugeaud had just put the veil upon the head of 
her daughter Margaret, and impressed upon her 
forehead the last kiss of motherly love. It was 
the hour when a mother holds her daughter as a 
child in her arms for the last time, bids adieu to 
the pleasant pictures of the past, and sends her 
child from her parents’ house to go out into the 
world and seek a new home. Painful always is 
such an hour to a mother’s heart, for the future is 
uncertain ; no one knows any thing about the new 
vicissitudes that may arise. 

And painful, too, to the wife of Councillor Bu- 
geaud was this parting from her dearly-loved 
daughter, but she suppressed her deep emotion, re- 
strained the tears in her heart, that not one should 
fall upon the bridal wreath of her loved daughter. 
Tears dropped upon the bridal wreath are the her- 
alds of coming misfortune, the seal of pain which 
destiny stamps upon the brow of the doomed 
one. 

And the tender mother would so gladly have 
taken away from her loved Margaret every pain 
and every misfortune ! The times were threaten- 
ing, and the horizon of the present was so full 
of stormy signs that it was necessary to look into 
the future with hope. 

“ Go, my daughter,” said Madame Bugeaud, 
with a smile, regarding which only God knew how 
much it cost the mother’s heart — “go out into 
your new world, be happy, and may you never 
regret the moment when you left the threshold 
of your father’s house to enter a new home ! ” 

“ My dear mother,” cried Margaret, with beam- 


ing eyes, “ the house to which I am going is the 
house of him I love, and my new home is his 
heart, which is noble, great, and good, and in 
which all the treasures in the earth for me rest.” 

“ God grant, my daughter, that you may after 
many years be able to repeat those words ! ” 

“ I shall repeat them, mother, for in my heart 
is a joyful trust. I can never be unhappy, for 
Toulan loves me. But, hark ! I hear him com- 
ing ; it is his step, and listen ! he is calling me ! ” 

And the young girl, with reddening cheeks, di- 
rected her glowing eyes to the door, which just 
then opened, where appeared her lover, in a sim- 
ple, dark, holiday-suit, with a friendly, grave coun- 
tenance, his tender, beaming eyes turned toward 
his affianced. 

He hastened to her, and kissed the little trem- 
bling hand which was extended to him. 

“ All the wedding guests are ready, my love. 
The carriages are waiting, and as soon as we en- 
ter the church the clergyman will advance to the 
altar to perform the ceremony.” 

“ Then let us go, Louis,” said Margaret, nodding 
to him, and arm-in-arm they went to the door. 

But Toulan held back. “ Not yet, my dear one. 
Before we go to the church, I want to have a few 
words with you.” 

“ That is to say, my dear sir, that you would 
like to have me withdraw,” said the mother, with 
a smile. “Bo not apologize, my son, that is only 
natural, and I dare not be jealous. My daughter 
belongs to you, and I have no longer the right to 
press into your secrets. So I will withdraw, and 
only God may hear what the lover has to say to 
his affianced before the wedding.” 

She nodded m friendly fashion to the couple, 
and left the room. 

“We are now alone, my Margaret,” said Tou- 
lan, putting his arm around the neck of the fair 
young maiden, and drawing her to himself. 
“ Only God is to hear what I have to say to you.” 

“I hope, Louis,” whispered the young girl, 
trembling, “ I hope it is not bad news that you 
want to tell me. Your face is so grave, your 
whole look so solemn. You love me still, 
Louis ? ” 


VO 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“Yes, Margaret, I do love you,” answered he, 
softly ; “ but yet, before you speak the word 
which binds you to me forever, I must open my 
whole heart to you, and you must know all I feel, 
in order that, if there is a future to prove us, we 
may meet it with fixed gaze and joyful spirit.” 

“ My God ! what have I to hear ? ” whispered 
the young girl, pressing her hand to her heart, 
that began to beat with unwonted violence. 

“ You will have to hear, my Margaret, that I 
love you, and yet that the image of another woman 
is cherished in my heart.” 

“ Who is this other woman ? ” cried Margaret. 

“ Margaret, it is Queen Marie Antoinette.” 

The girl breathed freely, and laughed. “ Ah ! 
how you frightened me, Louis. I was afraid you 
were going to name a rival, and now you mention 
her whom I, too, love and honor, to whom I pay 
my whole tribute of admiration, and who, al- 
though you ought to live there alone, has a place 
in my heart. I shall never be jealous of the 
queen, I love her just as devotedly as you do.” 

A light, sympathetic smile played upon the lips 
of Toulan. “No, Margaret,” said he, gravely, 
“ you do not love her as I do, and you cannot, 
for your duty to her is not like mine. Listen, 
my darling, and I will tell you a little story — a 
story which is so sacred to me that it has never 
passed over my lips, although, according to the 
ways of human thinking, there is nothing so very 
strange about it. Come, my dear, sit down with 
me a little while, and listen to me.” 

He led the maiden to the little divan, and took 
a place with her upon it. Her hand lay within 
his, and with a joyful and tender look she gazed 
into the bold, noble, and good face of the man 
to whom she was ready to devote her whole life. 

“ Speak now, Louis, I will listen ! ” 

“ I want to tell you of my father, Margaret,” 
said the young man, with a gentle voice — “ of ray 
father, who thirsted and hungered for me, in his 
efforts to feed, clothe, and educate me. He had 
been an officer in the army, had distinguished 
himself in many a battle, was decorated, on account 
of his bravery, with the Order of St. Louis, and 
discharged as an invalid. That was a sad mis- 


fortune for my father, for he vas poor, and his 
officer’s pay was his only fortune. But no — he had 
a nobler, a fairer fortune — he had a wife n hom ho 
passionately loved, a little boy whom he adored. 
And now the means of existence were taken away 
from this loved wife, this dear boy, and from him 
whose service had been the offering of his life for 
his king and country, the storming of fortifica- 
tions, the defying of the bayonets of enemies ; and 
who in this service had been so severely wounded, 
that his life was saved only by the amputation of 
his right arm. Had it not been just this right 
arm, he would have been able to do something 
for himself, and to have found some employment 
in the government service. But now he was 
robbed of all hope of employment ; now he saw 
for himself and his family only destruction, starva- 
tion ! But he could not believe it possible ; he 
held it to be impossible that the king should al- 
low his bold soldier, his knight of the Order of 
St. Louis, to die of hunger, after becoming a crip- 
ple in his service. He resolved to go to Paris, to 
declare his need to the king, and to implore the 
royal bounty. This journey was the last hope of 
the family, and my father was just entering on it 
when my mother sickened and died. She was 
the prop, the right arm of my father ; she was 
the nurse, the teacher of his poor boy ; now he 
had no hope more, except in the favor of the king 
and in death. The last valuables were sold, and 
father and son journeyed to Paris : an invalid 
whose bravery had cost him an arm, and whose 
tears over a lost wife had nearly cost him his eye- 
sight, and a lad of twelve years, acquainted only 
with pain and want from his birth, and in whose 
heart, notwithstanding, there was an inextin- 
guishable germ of hope, spirit, and joy. We 
went on foot, and when my shoes were torn with 
the long march, my feet swollen and bloody, my 
father told me to climb upon his back and let 
him carry me. I would not allow it, suppressed 
my pain, and went on till I dropped in a swoon.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Margaret, with tears in her eyes, 
“ how much you have suffered ; and I am learn- 
ing it now for the first time, and you never told 
me this sad history.” 


BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 


n 


“ I forgot every thing sad when I began to love 
fou, Margaret, and I did not want to trouble you 
fvith my stories. Why should we darken the 
clear sky of the present with the clouds of the 
past? the future will unquestionably bring its own 
clouds. I tell you all this now, in order that you 
may understand my feelings. Now hear me fur- 
ther, Margaret! At last, after long-continued 
efforts, we reached Versailles, and it seemed to us 
as if all suffering and want were taken away from 
us when we found ourselves in a dark, poor inn, 
and lay down on the hard beds. On the next, my 
father put on his uniform, decorated his breast 
with the order of St. Louis, and, as the pain in his 
eyes prevented his going alone, I had to accom- 
pany him. We repaired to the palace and entered 
the great gallery which the court daily traversed 
on returning from mass in the royal apartments. 
My father, holding in his hand the petition which 
I had written to his dictation, took his place near 
the door through which the royal couple must 
pask I stood near him and looked with curious 
eyes at the brilliant throng which filled the great 
hall, and at the richly-dressed gentlemen who 
were present and held petitions in their hands, in 
spite of their cheerful looks and their fine clothes. 
And these gentlemen crowded in front of my father, 
shoved him to the wall, bid him from the eye of 
the king, who passed through the hall at the side of 
the queen, and with a pleasant face received all 
the petitions which were handed to him. Sadly 
we turned home, but on the following day we re- 
paired to the gallery again, and I had the courage 
to crowd back some of the elegantly-dressed men 
who wanted to press before my father, and to 
secure for him a place in the front row. I was 
rewarded for my boldness. The king came, and 
with a gracious smile took the petition from the 
hand of my father, and laid it in the silver basket 
which the almoner near him carried.” 

“ Thank God,” cried Margaret, with a sigh of 
relief, “ thank God, you were saved ! ” 

“ That we said too, Margaret, and that restored 
my father’s hope and made him again happy and 
Well. We went the next day to the gallery. The 
king appeared, the grand almoner announced the 


names of those who were to receive answers to 
their petitions — the name of my father was not 
among them ! But we comforted ourselves with 
the thought, it was not possible to receive answers 
so quickly, and on the next day we went to the 
gallery again, and so on for fourteen successive 
days, but all in vain ; the name of my father was 
never called. Still we went every day to the gal- 
lery and took our old place there, only the coun- 
tenance of my father was daily growing paler, 
his step weaker, and his poor boy more trust- 
less and weak. We had no longer the means of 
stilling our hunger, we had consumed every thing, 
and my father’s cross of St. Louis was our last 
possession. But that we dared not part with, 
for it was our passport to the palace, it opened 
to us the doors of the great gallery, and there 
was still one last hope. ‘We go to-morrow 
for the last time,’ said my father to me on 
the fifteenth day. ‘ If it should be in vain on the 
morrow, then I shall sell my cross, that you, Louis, 
may not need to be hungry any more, and then 
may God have mercy upon us ! ’ So we went the 
next day to the gallery again. My father was to- 
day paler than before, but he held his head erect ; 
he fixed his eye, full of an expression of defiance 
and scorn, upon the talkative, laughing gentle- 
men around him, who strutted in their rich 
clothes, and overlooked the poor chevalier who 
stood near them, despised and alone. In my poor 
boy’s heart there was a fearful rage against these 
proud, supercilious men, who thought themselves 
so grand because they wore better clothes, and 
because they had distinguished acquaintances and 
relations, and yet were no more than my father — . 
no more than suppliants and petitioners ; tears of 
anger and of grief filled my eyes, and the depth of 
our poverty exasperated my soul against the in- 
justice of fate. All at once the whispering and 
talking ceased, — the king and the queen had en- 
tered the gallery. The king advanced to the mid- 
dle of the hall, the grand almoner called the 
names, and the favored ones approached the king, 
to receive from him the fulfilment of their wishes, or 
at least keep their hope alive. Near him stood the 
young queen, and while she was conversing with 


72 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


some gentlemen of the court, her beautiful eyes 
glanced over to us, and lingerea upon the noble 
but sad form of my father. I had noticed that 
on previous days, and every time it seemed to me 
as if a ray from the sun had warmed my poor 
trembling heart — as if new blossoms of hope were 
putting forth in my soul. To-day this sensation, 
when the queen looked at us, was more intense 
than before. My father looked at the king and 
whispered softly, ‘I see him to-day for the last 
time ! ’ But I saw only the queen, and while I 
pressed the cold, moist hand of my father to my 
lips, I whispered, ‘ Courage, dear father, cour- 
age ! The queen has seen us.’ She stopped 
short in her conversation with the gentleman and 
advanced through the hall with a quick, light 
step direetly to us; her large gray-blue eyes 
beamed with kindness, a heavenly smile played 
around her rosy lips, her cheeks were flushed with 
feeling ; she was simply dressed, and yet there 
floated around her an atmosphere of grace and 
nobleness. ‘ My dear chevalier,’ said she, and 
her voice rang like the sweetest music, ‘ my dear 
chevalier, have you given a petition to the king ? ’ 

‘ Yes, madame,’ answered my father trembling, 

‘ fourteen days ago I presented a petition to the 
king.’ ‘ And have you received no answer yet ? ’ 
she asked quickly. ‘I see you every day here 
with the lad there, and conclude you are still hop- 
ing for an answer.’ ‘ So it is, madame,’ answered 
my father, ‘ I expect an answer, that is I expect 
a decision involving my hfe or death.’ ‘Poor 
man ! ’ said the queen, with a tone of deep sympa- 
thy. ‘ Fourteen days of such waiting must be 
dreadful ! I pity you sincerely. Have you no one 
to present your claims ? ’ ‘ Madame,’ answered 

my father, ‘ I have no one else to present my 
claims than this empty sleeve which lacks a right 
arm — no other protection than the justice of my 
cause.’ ‘ Poor man ! ’ sighed the queen, ‘ you 
must know the world very little if you believe 
that this is enough. But, if you allow me, I will 
undertake your protection, and be your interces- 
sor with the king. Tell me your name and ad- 
dress.’ My father gave them, the queen listened 
attentively and smiled in friendly fashion. ‘Be 


here to-morrow at this hour — I myself will bring 
you the king’s answer.’ We left the palace with 
new courage, with new hope. We felt no longer 
that we were tired and hungry, and heeded not 
the complaints of our host, who declared that he 
had no more patience, and that he would no 
longer give us credit for the miserable chamber 
which we had. His scolding and threatening 
troubled us that day no more. We begged him to 
have patience with us till to-morrow. We told 
him our hopes for the future, and we rejoiced in 
our own cheerful expectations. At length the 
next day arrived, the hour of the audience came, 
and we repaired to the great gallery. My heart 
beat so violently that I could feel it upon my lips, 
and my fafher’s face was lighted up with a glow 
of hope ; his eye had its old fire, bis whole being 
was filled wdth new life, his carriage erect as in 
our happy days. At last the doors opened and 
the royal couple entered. ‘ Pray for me, my son,’ 
my father whispered — ‘ pray for me that my 
hopes be not disappointed, else I shall fall dead to 
the earth? But I could not pray, I could not 
think. I could only gaze at the beautiful young 
queen, who seemed to my eyes as if beaming in a 
golden cloud surrounded by all the stars of heaven. 
The eyes of the queen darted inquiringly through 
the hall ; at last she caught mine and smiled. Oh 
that smile ! it shot like a ray of sunlight through 
my soul, it filled my whole being with rapture. I 
sank upon my knee, folded my hands, and now I 
could think, could pray : ‘ A blessing upon the 

queen ! she comes to save my dear father’s life, for 
she frees us from our sufferings. ’ The queen ap- 
proached, so beautiful, so lovely, with such a 
beaming eye. She held a sealed paper in her 
hand and gave it to my father wdth a gentle incli- 
nation of her head. ‘ Here, sir,’ she said, ‘ the 
king is happy to be able to reward, in the name 
of France, one of his best officers. The king 
grants you a yearly pension of three hundred 
louis-d’or, and I wish for you and your son that 
you may live yet many years to enjoy happiness 
and health. Go at once wdth this paper to the 
treasury, and you wffil receive the first quarterly 
payment.’ Then, wffien she saw that my father 


BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 


Y3 


was almost swooning, she summoned with a loud 
voice some gentlemen of the court, and commanded 
them to take care of my father ; to take him out 
into the fresh air, and to arrange that he be sent 
home in a carriage. Now all these fine gentlemen 
were busy in helping us. Every one vied with 
the others in being friendly to us ; and the poor 
neglected invalid who had been crowded to the 

O 

wall, the overlooked officer Toulan, was now an 
object of universal care and attention. We rode 
home to our inn in a royal carriage, and the host 
did not grumble any longer ; he was anxious to pro- 
cure us food, and very active in caring for all our 
needs. The queen had saved us from misfortune, 
the queen had made us happy and well to do.” 

“ A blessing upon the dear head of our queen ! ” 
cried Margaret, raising her folded hands to heav- 
en. “ Now I shall doubly love her, for she is the 
benefactor of him I love. Oh, why have you 
waited until now before telling me this beautiful, 
touching story ? Why have I not enjoyed it be- 
fore? But I thank you from my heart for the 
good which it has done me.'” 

“My dear one,” answered Toulan, gravely, 
“there are experiences in the human soul that 
one may reveal only in the most momentous 
epochs of life — just as in the Jewish temple the 
Holy of Holies was revealed only on the chief 
feast-days. Such a time, my dear one, is to-daj^, 
and I withdraw all veils from my heart, and let 
you see and know ■what, besides you, only God 
sees and knows. Since that day when I returned 
with my father from the palace, and ■when the 
queen had made us happy again — since that day 
my whole soul has belonged to the queen. I 
thanked her for all, for the contentment of my 
father, for every cheerful hour which we spent 
together ; and all the knowledge I have gained, all 
the studies I have attempted, I owe to the beauti- 
ful, noble Marie Antoinette. We went to our 
home, and I entered the high-school in order to 
fit myself to be a merchant, a bookseller. My 
father had enjoined upon me not to choose a sol- 
dier’s lot. The sad experience of his invalid life 
hung over him like a dark cloud, and he did not 
wish that I should ever enter into the same. ‘ Be 


an independent, free man,’ said he to me. Learn 
to depend on your own strength and your own 
will alone. Use the powers of your mind, become 
a soldier of labor, and so serve your country. I 
knovr, indeed, that if the hour of danger ever 
comes, you will be a true, bold soldier for your 
queen, and fight for her till your last breath.’ I 
had to promise him on his death-bed that I would 
so do. Even then he saw the dark and dangerous 
days approach, which have now broken upon the *■ 
realm — even then he heard the muttering of the 
tempest which now so inevitably is approaching ; 
and often when I went home to his silent cham- 
ber I found him reading, with tears in his eyes, 
the pamphlets and journals which had come from 
Paris to us at Rouen, and which seemed to us 
like the storm-birds announcing the tempest. 

‘ The queen is so good, so innocent,’ he would 
sigh, ‘ and they make her goodness a crime and 
her innocence they make guilt ! She is like a 
lamb, surrounded by tigers, that plays thoughtless- 
ly with the flowers, and does not know the poison 
that lurks beneath them. Swear to me, Louis, 
that you -will seek, if God gives you the power, to 
free the lamb from the bloodthirsty tigers. Swear 
to me that your whole life shall be devoted to 
her service.’ And I did sweat* it, Margaret, not 
merely to my dear father, but to myself as well. 
Every day I have repeated, ‘ To Queen Marie An- 
toinette belongs my life, for every thing that 
makes life valuable I owe to her.’ When my 
father died, I left Rouen and removed to Paris, 
there to pursue my business as a bookseller. My 
suspicions told me that the time would soon come 
when the friends of the queen must rally around 
her, and must perhaps put a mask over their 
faces, in order to sustain themselves until the 
days of real danger. That time has now come, 
Margaret ; the queen is in danger ! The tigers 
have surrounded the lamb, and it cannot escape. 
Enemies everywhere, wherever you look ! — ene- 
mies even in the palace itself. The Count de 
Provence, her own brother-in-law, has for years 
persecuted her with his epigrams, because he can- 
not forgive it in her that the king pays more at- 
tention to her counsels than he does to those of 


74 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


his brother, who hates the Austrian. The Count 
d’ Artois, formerly the only friend of Marie An- 
toinette in the royal family, deserted her when 
the queen took ground against the view of the 
king’s brothers in favor of the double representa- 
tion of the Third Estate, and persuaded her hus- 
band to comply with the wishes of the nation and 
call together the States-General. He has gone 
over to the camp of her enemies, and rages 
against the queen, because she is inclined to favor 
the wishes of the people. And yet this very peo- 
ple is turned against her, does not believe* in the 
love, but only in the hate of the queen, and all 
parties are agreed in keeping the people in 
this faith. The Duke d’Orleans revenges him- 
self upon the innocent and pure queen for the 
scorn which she displays to this infamous prince. 
The aunts of the queen revenge themselves for 
the obscure position to which fate has consigned 
them, they having to play the second part at the 
brilliant court of Yersailles, and be thrown into 
the shade by Marie Antoinette. The whole court — 
all these jealous, envious ladies — revenge them, 
selves for the favor which the queen has shown 
to the Polignacs. They have undermined her 
good name ; they have fought against her with 
the poisoned arrows of denunciation, calumny, 
pamphlets, and libels. Every thing bad that has 
happened has been ascribed to her. She has been 
held responsible for every evil that has happened 
to the nation. The queen is accountable for the 
financial troubles that have broken over us, and 
since the ministry have declared the state bank- 
rupt, Parisians call the queen Madame Deficit. 
Curses follow her when she drives out, and even 
when she enters the theatre. Even in her own 
gardens of St. Cloud and Trianon men dare to in- 
sult the queen as she passes by. In all the clubs 
of Paris they thunder at the queen, and call her 
the destruction of France. The downfall of Marie 
Antoinette is resolved upon by her enemies, and 
the time has come when her friends must be ac- 
tive for her. The time has come for me to pay the 
vow which I made to my dying father and to my- 
self. God has blessed my efforts and crowned 
my industry and activity with success. I have 


reached an independent position. The confidence 
of my fellow-citizens has made me a councillor. I 
have accepted the position, not out of vanity or 
ambition, but because it will give me opportunity 
to serve the queen. I wear a mask before my 
face. I belong to the democrats and agitators. 1 
appear to the world as an enemy of the queen, in 
order to be able to do her some secret service as 
a friend ; for I say to you, and repeat it before God, 
to the queen belong my whole life, my whole be- 
ing, and thought. I love you, Margaret ! Every 
thing which can make my life happy will come 
from you, and yet I shall be ready every hour to 
leave you — to see my happiness go to ruin without 
a complaint, without a sigh, if I can be of service 
to the queen. You my heart loves ; her my 
soul adores. Wherever I shall be, Margaret, 
if the call of the queen comes to me, I shall 
follow it, even if I know that death lurks at 
the door behind which the queen av/aits me. 
We stand before a dark and tempestuous time, 
and our country is to be torn with fearful strife. 
All passions are unfettered, all want to fight for 
freedom, and against the chains with which the 
royal government has held them bound. An 
abyss has opened between the crown and the 
nation, and the States-General and the Third 
Estate will not close it, but only widen 'it. I tell 
you, Margaret, dark days are approaching; I see 
them coming, and I cannot, for your sake, with- 
draw from them, for I am the soldier of the 
queen. I must keep guard before her door, and, 
if I cannot save her, I must die in her service. 
Know this, Margaret, but know, too, that I love 
you. Let me repeat, that from you alone all for- 
tune and happiness can come to me, and then do 
you decide. Will you, after all that I have told 
you, still accept my hand, w'hich I offer you in 
tenderest affection ? Will you be my wife, know- 
ing that my life belongs not to you alone, but 
still more to another ? Will you share with me 
the dangers of a stormy time, of an inevitable 
future with me, and devote yourself with me to 
the service of the queen ? Examine yourself, Mar- 
garet, before you answer. Do not forget your 
great and noble heart ; consider that it is a vast 


BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 


15 


Bacrifice to devote your life to a man who is pre- 
I pared every hour to give his life for another 
; woman — to leave the one he loves, and to go to. 
: his death in defence of his queen. Prove your 
f heart ; and, if you find that the sacrifice is too 
: great, turn your face away from me, and I will 
ii quickly go my way — will not complain, will think 
that it happens rightly, will love you my whole 

• life long, and thank you for the pleasant hours 
; which your love has granted to me.” 

He had dropped from the divan upon his knee, 
f and looked up to her with supplicating and anx- 
I ious eyes. 

j But Margaret did not turn her face av/ay from 
f him. A heavenly smile played over her features, 

|l her eye, beamed with love and emotion. And as 
her glance sank deep into the heart of her lover, 

\ he caught the look as if it had been a ray of sun- 
I light. She laid her arms upon his shoulders, and 

• pressing his head to her bosom, she bowed over 
^ him and kissed his black,, curly hair. 

I “ Ah ! I love you, Louis,” she whispered. “ I 
I am ready to devote my life to you, to share your 
! dangers with you, and in all contests to stand by 
your side. Soldier of the queen, in me you shall 
! always have a comrade. With you I will fight 
I for her, with you die for her, if it must be. We 
' will have a common love for her, we will serve 
I her in common, and with fidelity and love thank 
! her for the good which she has done to you and 
your father.” 

I 

, “ Blessings upon you, Margaret ! ” cried Toulan, 

I as breaking into tears he rested his head upon 

i the knee of his affianced. “Blessings on you, 

) 

j angel of my love and happiness !” Then he 
j sprang up, and, drawing the young girl within his 
I arms, he impressed a glowing kiss upon her lips. 

“ That is my betrothal kiss, Margaret ; now you 
are mine ; in this hour our souls are united in 
never-ending love and faithfulness. N’othing can 
separate us after this, for we journey hand in hand 
upon the same road ; we have the same great and 
hallowed goal ! How come, my love, let us take 
our place before the altar of God, and testify with 
j an oath to the love which we cherish toward our 
queen ! ” 


He offered her his arm, and, both smiling, both 
with beaming faces, left the room, and joined the 
wedding guests who had long been waiting for 
them with growing impatience. They entered the 
carriages and drove to the church. With joyful 
faces the bridal pair pledged their mutual fidelity 
before the altar, and their hands pressed one 
another, and their eyes met with a secret under- 
standing of all that was meant at that wedding. 
They both knew that at that moment they were 
pledging their fidelity to the queen, and that, while 
seeming to give themselves away to each other, 
they were really giving themselves to their sov- 
ereign. 

At the conclusion of the ceremony, they left the 
church of St. Louis to repair to the wedding din- 
ner, which Councillor Bugeaud had ordered to be 
prepared in one of the most brilhant restaurants 
of Yersailles. 

“ Will you not tell me now, my dear son,” he 
said to Toulan — “ will you not tell me now why 
you wish so strongly to celebrate the wedding in 
Yersailles, and not in Paris, and why in the 
church of St. Louis ? ” 

“ I will tell you, father,” answered Toulan, 
pressing the arm of his bride closer to bis heart. 
“ I wanted here, where the country erects its altar, 
where in a few days the nation will meet face to 
face these poor earthly majesties ; here, w'herc in 
a few days the States-General Avill convene, to 
defend the right of the people against the pre- 
rogative of the sovereign, here alone to give to 
my life its new consecration. Yersailles will 
from this time be doubly dear to me. I shall 
owe to it my life’s happiness as a man, my free- 
dom as a citizen. They have done me the honor 
in Rouen to elect me to a^place in the Third 
Estate, and as, in a few days, the Assembly of the 
Hation will meet here in Yersailles, I wanted my 
whole future happiness to be connected with the 
place. And I wanted to be married in St. Louis’s 
church, because I love the good King Louis. He 
is the true and sincere friend of the nation, and 
he would like to make his people happy, if the 
queen, the Austrian, would allow it.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” sighed the councillor, who, in 


76 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


spite of his relation to Madame de Campan, be- 
longed to the opponents of the queen — “ yes, 
indeed, if the, Austrian woman allowed it. But 
she is not willing that France should be happy. 
Woe to the queen; all our misery comes from 
her ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE OPENING OF THE STATES-GENERAL. 

On the morning of the 5th of May, 1789, the 
solemn opening of the States-General of France 
was to occur at Versailles. This early date was 
appointed for the convocation of the estates, in 
order to be able to protract as much as possible 
the ceremonial proceedings. But at the same 
time this occasion was to be improved in pre- 
paring a sensible humiliation for the members of 
the Third Estate. 

In the avenue of the Versailles palace a large 
and fine hall was fixed upon as the most appro- 
priate place for receiving the twelve hundred 
representatives of France, and a numerous com- 
pany of spectators besides ; and, being chosen, 
was appropriately fitted up. Louis XVI. him- 
self, who was very fond of sketching and drawing 
architectural plans, had busied himself in the 
most zealdus way with the arrangements and 
decorations of the hall. 

It had long been a matter of special interest to 
the king to fit up the room v/hich was to receive 
the representatives of the nation, in a manner 
which would be v/orthy of so significant an occa- 
sion. He had himself selected the hangings and 
the curtains which were to protect the audience 
from the too glaring light of the day. 

When the members of the Third Estate arrived, 
they saw with the greatest astonishment that they 
were not to enter the hall by the same entrance 
which was appropriated to the representatives of 
the nobility and the clergy, who were chosen at 
the same time with themselves. While for the 
last two the entrance was appointed through the 


main door of the hall, the commoners were al- 
lowed to enter by a rear door, opening into a 
dark and narrow corridor, where, crowded to- 
gether, they were compelled to wait till the doors 
were opened. 

Almost two hours elapsed before they were al- 
lowed to pass out of this dark place of confine- 
ment into the great hall, at a signal from, the 
Marquis de Brize, the master of ceremonies. 

A splendid scene now greeted their eyes. The 
Salle de Menus, which had been fitted up for the 
reception of the nobility, displayed within two 
rows of Ionic pillars, which gave to the hall an 
unwonted air of dignity and solemnity. The 
hall was lighted mainly from above, through a 
skylight, which was covered with a screen of 
wliite sarcenet. A gentle light diffused itself 
throughout the roojn, making one object as dis- 
cernible as another. In the background the 
throne could be seen on a richly ornamented 
estrade and beneath a gilded canopy, an easy- 
chair for the queen, tabourets for the princesses, 
and chairs for the other members of the royal 
family. Below the estrade stood the bench de- 
voted to the ministers and the secretaries of 
state. At the right of the throne, seats had been 
placed for the clergy, on the left for the nobility ; 
while in front were the six hundred chairs devoted 
to the Third Estate. 

The Marquis de Brize, with two assistant mas- 
ters of ceremonies, now began to assign the com 
moners to their seats, in accordance with the 
situation of the districts which they represented. 

As the Duke d’Orleans appeared in the midst 
of the other deputies of Crespy, there arose from 
the amphitheatre, where the spectators sat, a 
gentle sound of applause, which increased in 
volume, and was repeated by some of the com- 
moners, when it was noticed that the duke made . 
a clergyman, who had gone behind him in the 
delegation from this district, go in front of him, 
and did not desist till the round-bellied priest 
had really taken his place before him. 

In the mean time the bench of the ministers 
had begun to fill. They appeared as a body, 
clothed in rich uniforms, heavy with gold. Only 


THE OPENING OF THE STATES-GENERAL. 


'77 


' one single man among them appeared in simple 
citizen’s clothing, and bearing himself as naturally 
as if he were engaged in business of the state, or 
in ordinary parlor conversation, and by no means 
as if taking part in an extraordinary solemnity. 
As soon as he was seen, there arose on all sides, 

' as much in the assembly as on the tribune, a 
movement as of joy which culminated in a gen- 
eral clapping of hands. 

The man who received this salutation was the 
newly-appointed minister of finance, Necker, to 
V whom the nation was looking for a reiistablish- 
j ment of its prosperity and of its credit. 

Necker manifested only by a thoughtful smile, 
f which mounted to his earnest, thought-furrowed 
I face, that he was conscious to whom the garland 
t: of supreme popularity was extended at this mo- 
1, ment. 

Ij N-ext, the deputation of Provence appeared, in 
I the midst of which towered Count Mirabeau, with 
l! his proud, erect bearing, advancing to take the 
I place appointed for him. His appearance was the 
; sign for a few hands to commence clapping in a 
distant part of the hall, in honor of a man so 
much talked of in France, and of whom such 
j strange things were said. But at this instant the 
king appeared, accompanied by the queen, fol- 
! lowed by the princes and princesses of the royal 
j family. 

' At the entrance of the king, the whole assem- 
bly broke into a loud, enthusiastic shout of ap- 
I plause and of joy. The Third Estate as well, at 
a signal from Count Mirabeau, had quickly risen, 
I but continued to stand without bending the knee, 
I as had been, at the last time when all the es- 
i dates were assembled, the invariable rule. Only 
one of the representatives of the Third Estate, a 
young man wnth energetic, proud face, and dark, 
glowing eyes, bent bis knee when he saw the 
queen, entering behind the king. But the power- 
ful hand of his neighbor was laid upon his shoul- 
der and drew him quickly up. 

“ Mr. Deputy,” whispered this neighbor to him, 
“ it becomes the representatives of the nation to 
stand erect before the crown.” 

“ It is true, Count Mirabeau ” answered Toulan. 


“ I did not bend my knee to the crown, but to the 
queen as a beautiful woman.” 

Mirabeau made no reply, but turned his fiaming 
eyes to the king. 

Louis XVI. appeared that day arrayed in the 
great royal ermine, and wore upon his head a 
plumed hat, whose band glistened with great dia- 
monds, while the largest in the royal possession, 
the so-called Titt, formed the centre, and threw its 
rays far and wide. The king appeared at the 
outset to be deeply moved at the reception which 
had been given him. A smile, indicating that his 
feelings were touched, played upon his face. But 
afterward, when all w'as still, and the king saw 
the grave, manly, marked faces of the commoners 
opposite him, his manner became confused, and 
for an instant he seemed to tremble. 

The queen, however, looked around her with a 
calm and self-possessed survey. Her fine eyes 
swept slowly and searchingly over the rows of 
grave men who sat opposite the royal couple, and 
dwelt a moment on Toulan, as if she recalled in 
him the young man who, two years before, had 
brought the message of Cardinal Rohan’s acquit- 
tal. A painful smile shot for an instant over her 
fine features. Yes, she had recognized him ; the 
young man who, at Madame de Campan’s room, 
had swmrn a vow of eternal fidelity to her. And 
now he sat opposite her, on the benches of the 
commoners, among her enemies, who gazed at 
her with angry looks. That was his way of ful- 
filling the vow which he had made of his own free 
will ! 

But Marie Antoinette wondered at nothing now ; 
she had witnessed the failing away of so many 
friends, she had been forsaken by so many who 
were closely associated with her, and who were 
indebted to her, that it caused her no surprise 
that the young man who hardly knew her, who 
had admired her in a fit of youthful rapture, had ' 
done like all the rest in joining the number of her 
enemies. 

Marie Antoinette sadly let her eyes fall. She 
could look at nothing more ; she had in this sol- 
emn moment received a new wound, seen a new 
deserter ! 


is 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Toulan read her thoughts in her sad mien, on 
her throbbing forehead, but his own countenance 
remained cheerful and bright. 

“ She will live to see the day when she will 
confess that I am her friend, am true to her,” he 
said to himself. “ And on that day I shall be 
repaid for the dagger-thrust which I have just re- 
ceived from her eyes. Courage, Toulan, courage ! 
Hold up your head and be strong. The contest 
has begun ; you must fight it through or die ! ” 

But the queen did not raise her head again. 
She looked unspeakably sad in her simple, un- 
adorned attire — in her modest, gentle bearing — 
and it was most touching to see the pale, fair 
features which sought in vain to disclose nothing 
of the painful emotions of her soul. 

The king now arose from his throne and re- 
moved his plumed hat. At once Marie Antoi- 
nette rose from her arm-chair, in order to listen 
standing to the address of the king. 

“ Madame,” said the king, bowing to her light- 
ly, “ madame, be seated, I beg of you.” 

“Sire,” answered Marie Antoinette, calmly, 
“ allow me to stand, for it does not become a sub- 
ject to sit while the king is standing.” 

A murmur ran through the rows of men, and 
loud, scornful laughter from one side. Marie An- 
toinette shrank back as if an adder had wounded 
her, and with a flash of wrath her eyes darted 
in the direction whence the laugh had come. It 
was from Philip d’ Orleans. He did not take the 
trouble to smooth down his features ; he looked 
with searching, defiant gaze over to the queen, 
proclaiming to her in this glance that he was her 
death-foe, that he was bent on revenge for the 
scorn which she had poured out on the spend- 
thrift — revenge for the joke which she had once 
made at his expense before the wdiole court. It 
was at the time wdien the Duke d’Orleans, spend- 
thrift and miser at the same time, had rented 
the lower rooms of his palace to be used as 
stores. On his next appearance at Versailles, Ma- 
rie Antoinette said : “ Since you have become a 
shopkeeper, we shall probably see you at Ver- 
sailles only on Sundays and holidays, when your 
stores are closed ! ” 


Philip d’Orleans thought of this at this mo- 
ment, as he stared at the queen with his laugh- 
ing face, while his looks were threatening ven- 
geance and requital. 

The king now began the speech with which he 
proposed to open the assembly of his estates. The 
queen listened with deep emotion ; a feeling of 
unspeakable sorrow filled her soul, and despite all 
her efforts her eyes filled with tears, which lei- 
surely coursed down her cheeks. When, at the 
close of his address, the king said that he was 
the truest and most faithful friend of the people, 
and that France had his whole love, the queen 
looked up with a gentle, beseeching expression, 
and her eyes seemed as if they wanted to say 
to the deputies, “ I, too, am a friend of the peo- 
ple ! I, too, love France ! ” 

The king ended his address ; it was followed by 
a prolonged and lively clapping of hands, and 
sitting down upon the chair of the throne, he 
covered his head with the jewelled chapeau. 

At the same moment all the noblemen who 
were in the hall put on their own hats. At once 
Count Mirabeau, the representative of the Third 
Estate, put on his hat ; other deputies followed j 
his example; but Toulan, whom Mirabeau had H 
before hindered from kneeling — Toulan now 
wanted to prevent the proud democrats covering 
themselves in presence of the queen. 

“ Hats off! ” he cried, with a loud voice, and 
here and there in the hall the same cry was re- 
peated. 

But from other sides there arose a different 
cry, “ Hats on! Be covered ! ” 

Scarcely had the ear of the king caught the 
discordant cry which rang up and down the hall, | 
v/hen he snatched his hat from his head, and at B 
once the whole assembly followed his example. || 
Toulan had gained his point, the assembly 
mainpd uncovered in presence of the queen. | [ 
At last, after four long, painful hours, the cer- j 
emony was ended ; the queen followed the exam- j 
pie of the king, rising, greeting the deputies 
a gentle inclination of her head, and leaving the . 
hall at the side of the king. 

Some of the deputies cried, “ Long live the i 


THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN. 


79 


I king ! ” but their words died away without finding 
any echo. Not a single voice was raised in honor 
of the queen ! But outside, on the square, there 
I were confused shouts ; the crowd of people pressed 
hard up to the door, and called for the queen. 

[ They had seen the deputies as they entered the 
hall ; they had seen the king as he had attended 
divine service at the church of St. Louis. Now 
the people were curious to see the queen ! 

A joyful look passed over the face of the queen 
as she heard those cries. For a long time she 
, had not heard such acclaims. Since the unfortu- 
I nate 1786, since the necklace trial, they had be- 

i 

come more rare ; at last, they had ceased alto- 
gether, and at times the queen, when she appeared 
, in public, was hailed with loud hisses and angry 
1| murmurs. 

1 “ The queen! The queen!” sounded louder 
and louder in the great square. Marie Antoinette 
obeyed the cry, entered the great hall, had the 
doors opened which led to the balcony, went out 
and showed herself to the people, and greeted 
them with friendly smiles. 

But, instead of the shouts of applause which 

j, she had expected, the crowd relapsed at once into 

i' 

a gloomy silence. Not a hand was raised to 
I greet her, not a mouth was opened to cry “ Long 
ij live the queen ! ” 

I Soon, however, there was heard a harsh wo- 
I man’s voice shouting, “Long live the Duke d’Or- 
Si leans ! Long life to the friend of the people ! ” 
The queen, pale and trembling, reeled back 
from the balcony, and sank almost in a swoon 
into the arms of the Duchess de Polignac, who 
was behind her. Her eyes were closed, and a 
convulsive spasm shook her breast. 

Through the opened doors of the balcony the 
shouts of the people could be heard all the time, 
“Long live the Duke d’Orleans ! ” 

The queen, still in her swoon, was carried into 
her apartments and laid upon her bed; only 
I Madame de Campan remained in front of it to 
watch the queen, who, it was supposed, had fallen 
asleep. 

A deep silence prevailed in the room, and the 
stillness awoke Marie Antoinette from her half 


insensibility. She opened her eyes, and seeing 
Campan kneeling before her bed, she threw her 
arms around the faithful friend, and with gasp- 
ing breath bowed her head upon her shoulder. 

“ Oh, Campan,” she cried, with loud, choking 
voice, “ ruin is upon me. I am undone ! All my 
happiness is over, and soon my life will be over 
too ! I have to-day tasted of the bitterness of 
death ! We shall never be happy more, for de- 
struction hangs over us, and our death-sentence 
is pronounced ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE INHERITANCE OP THE DAUPHIN. 

For four weeks the National Assembly met 
daily at Versailles ; that is to say, for four weeks 
the political excitement grew greater day by day, 
the struggle of the parties more pronounced and 
fierce, only with this qualification, that tlie par- 
ty which attacked the queen was stronger than 
that which defended her. Or rather, to express 
the exact truth, there was no party for Marie 
Antoinette ; there were only here and there de- 
voted friends, who dared to encounter the odium 
which their position called down upon them — 
dared face the calumnies which were set in cir- 
culation by the other parties : that of the people, 
the democrats ; that of Orleans ; that of the 
princes and princesses of the royal family. All 
these united their forces in order to attack the 
“Austrian,” to obscure the last gleams of the 
love and respect vv'hich were paid to her in hap- 
pier days. 

When Mirabeau made the proposition in the 
National Assembly that the person of the king 
should be declared inviolable, there arose from all 
these four hundred representatives of the French 
nation only one man who dared to declare with a 
loud voice and with defiant face, “ The persons of 
the king and queen shall be declared inviolable ! ” 

This was Toulan, the “ soldier of the queen.” 
But the Assembly replied to this demand only 


80 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


with loud murmurs, and scornful laughter ; not a 
voice was raised in support of this last cry in favor 
of the queen, and the Assembly decreed only this: 
“ The person of the king is inviolable.’’ 

“That means,” said the queen to the police 
minister Brienne, who brought the queen every 
morning tidings of what had occurred at Paris 
and Versailles, “that means that my death-war- 
rant was signed yesterday.” 

“ Your majesty goes too far ! ” cried the minis- 
ter in horror, “ I think that this has an entirely 
different meaning. The National Assembly has 
not pronounced the person of the queen inviola- 
ble, because they want to say that the queen has 
nothing to do with politics, and therefore it is un- 
necessary to pass judgment upon the inviolability 
of the queen.” 

“ Ah ! ” sighed the queen, “ I should have been 
happy if I had not been compelled to trouble my- 
self with these dreadful politics. It certainly was 
not in my wish nor in my character. My enemies 
have compelled me to it ; it is they who have 
turned the simple, artless queen into an intriguer.” 

“ Ah ! madam ! ” said the minister, astonished, 
“ you use there too harsh a word ; you speak as 
if they belonged to your enemies.” 

“ No, I use the right word,” cried Marie Antoi- 
nette, sadly. “ My enemies have made an in- 
triguer of me. Every woman who goes beyond her 
knowledge and the bounds of her duty in meddling 
with politics is nothing better than an intriguer. 
You see at least that I do not flatter myself, 
although it troubles me to have to give myself so 
bad a name. The Queens of France are happy 
only Avhen they have nothing to trouble them- 
selves about, and reserve only influence enough to 
give pleasure to their friends, and reward their 
faithful servants. Do you know what recently 
happened to me ? ” continued the queen, with a 
sad smile. “ As I was going into the privy coun- 
cil chamber to have a consultation wdth the king, 
I heard, while passing (Eil de Boeuf, one of the 
musicians saying so loud that I had to listen to 
every word, ‘ A queen who does her duty stays in 
her owm room and busies herself with her sewing 
and knitting.’ I said within myself, ‘ Poor fellow, 


you are right, but you don’t know my unhappy - 
condition ; I yield only to necessity, and my bad 
luck urges me forward.’ ” ^ 

“ Ah ! madame,” said the minister with a sigh, 

“ would that they w^ho accuse you of mingling in 
politics out of ambition and love of power — would j 
that they could hear your majesty complain of : 
yourself in these moving words ! ” !j 

“ My friend,” said Marie Antoinette, with a, sad • 
smile, “ if they heard it they would say that it was | 
only something learned by heart, wdth which I was ! 
trying to disarm the righteous anger of my ene- : 
mies. It is in vain to want to excuse or justify ' 
myself, for no one will bear a word. I must be 
guilty, I must be criminal, that they who accuse | 
me may appear to have done right ; that they , 
may ascend while they pull me down. But let us 
not speak more of this ! I know my future, I feel ; 
it clear and plain in my mind and in my soul that | 

I am lost, but I will at least fight courageously | 
and zealously till the last moment ; and, if I must go | 
down, it shall be at least with honor, true to. my- i 
self and true to the views and opinions in which I j 
have been trained. Now, go on ; let me know the , 
new libels and accusations which have been dis- ; 
seminated about me.” 

The minister drew from his portfolio a whole j 
package of pamphlets, and spread them upon a lit- 
tle table before the queen. J 

“ So much at once ! ” said the queen, sadly, turn- 
ing over the papers. “How much trouble I , 
make to my enemies, and how much they must '■ 
hate me that I have such tenacity of life ! Here is j, 
a pamphlet entitled ‘ Good advice to Madame^, j 
Deficit to leave France as soon as possible.’ ‘Mad% 1 
ame Deficit ! ’ that means me, doesn’t it ? ” ’ J 

“It is a name, your majesty, which the wicked- rjj 
ness of the Duke d’Orleans has imposed upon''|ifl 
your majesty,” answered the minister, with a ||u 
shrug of his shoulders. 

The eyes of the queen flashed in anger. SheTUf 
opened her lips to utter a choleric word, but^he 
governed herself, and went on turning over the ^ ' 
pamphlets and caricatures. While doing thatJSJi 

* The queen’s own words.— See “Memoires de Madam^*^ 
de Campan,” vol ii., p. 82. 


THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN. 


81 


while reading the words charged with poison of 
wickedness and hate, the tears coursed slowly 
over her cheeks, and once in a while a convul- 
sive gasp forced itself from her breast. 

Brienne pitied the deep sorrow of the queen. 
He begged her to discontinue this sad perusal. 
He wanted to gather up again the contumelious 
writings, but Marie Antoinette held his hand back. 

“ I must know every thing, every thing,” said 
she. “ Go on bringing me every thing, and do 
not be hindered by my tears. It is of course 
natural that I am sensitive to the evil words that 
are spoken about me, and to the bad opinion that 
is cherished toward me by a people that I love, 
and to win whose love I am prepared to make 
every sacrifice.* 

At this moment the door of the cabinet was 
dashed open without ceremony, and the Duchess 
de Polignac entered, 

“ Forgiveness ! your majesty, forgiveness that 
I have ventured to disturb you, but — ” 

“ What is it ? ” cried the queen, springing up. 
“You come to announce misfortune to me, duch- 
ess. It concerns the dauphin, does it not ? His 
illness has increased ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, cramps have set in, and 
the physicians fear the worst.” 

“ 0 Gofl ! 0 God ! ” cried the queen, raising 
both her hands to heaven, “ is every misfortune 
to beat down upon me ? I shall lose my son, my 
dear child ! Here I sit weeping pitiful tears about 
the malice of my enemies, and all this while my 
child is wrestling in the pains of death ! Fare- 
well, sir, I must go to my child.” 

And the queen, forgetting every thing else, 
thinking only of her child — the sick, dying dau- 
phin — hurried forward, dashing through the room 
with such quick step that the duchess could 
scarcely follow her. 

“ Is he dead ? ” cried Marie Antoinette to the 
servant standing in the antechamber of the dau- 
phin. She did not await the reply, but burst for- 
ward, hastily opened the door of the sick-room, 
and entered. 

* The queen’s own words. — See Malleville* Histoire 
de Marie Antoinette,” p. 197. 

6 


There upon the bed, beneath the gold-fringe'd 
canopy, lay the pale, motionless boy, with open, 
staring eyes, with parched lips, and wandering 
mind — and it was her child, it was the Dauphin of 
France. 

Around his bed stood the physicians, the 
quickly-summoned priest, and the servants, look- 
ing with sorrowful eyes at the poor, deathly-pale 
creature that was now no more than a withered 
flower, a son of dust that must return to dust ; 
then they looked sadly at the pale, trembling 
wife who crouched before the bed, and who now 
was nothing more than a sorrow-stricken mother, 
who must bow before the hand of Fate, and feel 
that she had no more power over life and death 
than the meanest of her subjects. 

She bent over the bed; she put her arms ten- 
derly around the little shrunken form of the poor 
child that had long been sick, and that was now 
confronting death. She covered the pale face of 
her son with kisses, and watered it with her tears. 

And these kisses, these tears of his mother, 
awakened the child out of his stupor, and called 
him back to life. The Dauphin Louis roused up 
once more, raised his great eyes, and, when he 
saw the countenance of his mother above him 
bathed in tears, he smiled and sought to raise his 
head and move his hand to greet her. But Death 
had already laid bis iron bands upon him, and 
held him back upon the couch of his last suf- 
ferings. 

“ Are you in pain, my child ? ” whispered Marie 
Antoinette, kissing him affectionately. “ Are you 
suffering ? ” 

The boy looked at her tenderly. “I do not 
suffer,” he whispered so softly that it sounded 
like the last breath of a departing spirit. “ I only 
suffer if I see you weep, mamma.” * 

Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and, 
kneeling near the bed, found power in her moth- 
erly love to summon a smile to her lips, in order 
that the dauphin, whose eyes remained fixed upon 
her, might not see that she was suffering. 

A deep silence prevailed now in the apartment ; 

* The very words of the dying dauphin. — See Weber,, 
“M6moires,” vol. i., p. 209. 


82 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


nothing was heard but the gently-whispered pray- 
ers of the spectators, and the slow, labored breath- 
ing of the dying child. 

Once the door was lightly opened, and a man’s 
figure stole lightly in, advanced on tiptoe to the 
bed, and sank on his knees close by Marie Antoi- 
nette. It was the king, who had just been sum- 
moned from the council-room to see his son die. 

And now with a loud voice the priest began 
the prayers for th-e dying, and all present softly 
repeated them. Only the queen could not ; her 
eyes were fastened upon her son, who now saw 
her no more, for his eyes were fixed in the last 
death-struggle. 

Still one last gasp, one last breath ; then came 
a cry from Marie Antoinette’s lips, and her head 
sank upon the hand of her son, which rested in 
her own, and which was now stiff. A few tears 
coursed slowly over the cheeks of the king, and 
his hands, folded in prayer, trembled. 

The priest raised his arms, and with a loud, 
solemn voice cried: “The Lord gave, the Lord 
hath taken away, blessed be the name of the 
Lord. Amen.” 

“ Amen, amen,” whispered all present. 

“Amen,” said the king, closing with gentle 
pressure the open eyes of his son. “ God has 
taken you to Himself, my son, perhaps because 
He wanted to preserve you from much trouble 
and sorrow. Blessed be His name ! ” 

But the queen still bowed over the cold face of 
her child, and kissed his lips. “Farewell, my 
son,” she whispered, “ farewell ! Ah, why could 
I not die with you — with you fly from this pitiful, 
sorrow-stricken world ? ” 

Then, as if the queen regretted the words 
which the mother had spoken with sighs, Marie 
Antoinette rose from her knees and turned to the 
priest, who was sprinkling the corpse of the dau- 
phin with holy water. 

“Father,” said she, “the children of poor 
parents, who may be born to-day in Yersailles, 
are each to receive from me the sum of a thou- 
sand francs. I wish that the death-bed of my 
son may be a day of joy for the poor who have 
not, like me, lost a child, but gained one, and that 


the lips of happy mothers may bless the day on 
which my boy died. Have the goodness to bring 
me to-morrow morning a list of the children bom • 
to-day.” 

“ Come, Marie,” said the king, “ the body of 
our son belongs no more to the living, but to the 
grave of our ancestors in St. Denis ; his soul to 
God. The dauphin is dead ! Long live the dau- 
phin ! Madame de Polignac, conduct the dauphin 
to us in the cabinet of his mother.” 

And with the proud and dignified bearing 
which was peculiar to the king in great and mo- 
mentous epochs, he extended his arm to the 
queen and conducted her out of .the death-cham- 
ber, and through the adjacent apartments, to her 
cabinet. 

“ Ah ! ” cried the queen, “ here we are alone ; 
here I can weep for my poor lost child.” 

And she threw her arms around the neck of 
her husband, and, leaning her head upon his breast, ^ jl 
wept aloud. The king pressed her closely to his ; 
heart, and the tears which flowed from his own S 
eyes fell in hot drops upon the head of the queen. 
Neither saw the door beyond lightly open, and .^i 


the Duchess de Polignac appear there. But when ^ 
she saw the royal pair in close embrace, when she \ 
heard their loud weeping, she drew back, stooped 
down to the little boy who stood by' her side,; 
whispered a few words to him, and, while gently 
pushing him forward, drew back herself, and 
gently closed the door behind them. The little 
fellow stood a moment irresolutely at the door, 
fixing his eyes now upon his father and mother, 
now upon the nosegay of violets and roses which 
he carried in his hand. The little Louis Charles 
was of that sweet and touching beauty that brings 
tears into one’s eyes, and fills the heart with sad- 
ness, because the thought cannot be suppressed,' 
that life, with its rough, wintry storms, will have 
no pity on this tender blossom of innocence, and 
that the beaming, angel-face of the child must on^“ 
day be changed into the clouded, weather-beatenT^ | 
furrowed face of the man. A cheering: sig:ht to 1 


look upon was the little, delicate figure of the ^ 
four-year-old boy, pleasing in his whole appear- 
ance. Morocco boots, with red tips, covered his 


THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN. 


83 


little feet ; broad trousers, of dark-blue velvet, 
came to his knees, and were held together at the 
waist by a blue silk sash, whose lace-tipped ends 
fell at his left side. He wore a blue velvet jacket, 
with a tastefully embroidered lace ruffle around 
the neck. The round, rosy face, with the ruby 
lips, the dimple in the chin, the large blue eyes, 
shaded by long, dark lashes, and crowned by the 
broad, lofty brow, was rimmed around with a 
profusion of golden hair, which fell in long, heavy 
locks upon his shoulders and over his neck. The 
child was as beautiful to look upon as one of the 
angels in Raphael’s “Sistine Madonna,” and he 
might have been taken for one, had it not been for 
the silver-embroidered, brilliant star upon his left 
side. This star, which designated his princely 
rank, was for the pretty child the seal of his mor- 
tality — the seal which ruin had already impressed 
upon his innocent child’s breast. 

One moment the boy stood indecisively there, 
looking at his weeping parents ; then he turned 
quickly forward, and, holding up his nosegay, he 
said : “ Mamma, I have brought you some flowers 
from my garden.” 

Marie Antoinette raised her head, and smiled 
through her tears as she looked at her son. The 
king loosened his embrace from the queen, in 
order to lift up the prince. 

“ Marie,” said he, holding him up to his wife, 
“ Marie, this is our son — this is the Dauphin of 
France.” 

Marie Antoinette took his head between her 
hands, and looked long, with tears in her eyes, 
and yet smiling all the while, into the lovely, rosy 
face of her boy. Then she stooped down, and 
impressed a long, tender kiss upon his smooth 
forehead. 

“ God love you, my child ! ” said she, solemnly. 
“ God bless you. Dauphin of France ! May the 
storms, which now darken our horizon, have long 
been past when you shall ascend the throne of 
your fathers ! God bless and defend you. Dau- 
phin of France ! ” 

“ But, mamma,” asked the boy, timidly, “ why 
do you call me dauphin to-day ? I am your little 
Louis, and I am called Duke de Normandy.” 


“ My son,” said the king, solemnly, “ God has 
been pleased to give you another name and an- 
other calling. Your poor brother, Louis, has left 
us forever. He has gone to God, and you are 
now Dauphin of France ! ” 

“ And God grant that it be for your good,” 
said the queen, with a sigh. 

The little prince slowly shook his locks. “ It 
certainly is not for my good,” said he, “ else 
mamma would not weep.” 

“ She is weeping, my child,” said the queen — ■ 
“ she is weeping, because your brother, who was 
the dauphin, has left us.” 

“And will he never come back?” asked the 
child, eagerly. 

“ No, Louis, he never will come back.” 

The boy threw both his arms around the neck 
of the queen. “Ah!” he cried, “how can any 
one ever leave his dear mamma and never come 
back ? /will never leave you, mamma 1 ” 

“I pray God you speak the truth,” sighed the 
queen, pressing him tenderly to herself. “ I pray 
God I may die before you both 1 ” 

“Not before me — oh, not before me!” ejacu- 
lated the king, shuddering. “Without you, my 
dear one, my life were a desert ; without you, the 
King of France were the poorest man in the whole 
land!” 

He smiled sadly at her. “ And with me he 
will perhaps be the most unfortunate one,” she 
whispered softly, as if to herself. 

“ Never unfortunate, if you are with me, and if 
you love me,” cried the king, warmly. “Weep 
no more ; we must overcome our grief, and com- 
fort ourselves with what, remains. I say to you 
once more : the dauphin is dead, long live the 
dauphin ! ” 

“ Papa king,” said the boy, quickly, “ you say 
the dauphin is dead, and has left us. Has he 
taken every thing away with him that belongs to 
him?” 

“ No, my son, he has left every thing. You are 
now the dauphin, and some time v/ill be King of 
France, for you are the heir of your brother.” 

“ What does that mean, his heir ? ” asked the 


child. 


84 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


It means,” answered the ting, “ that to you 
belong now the titles and honors of your brother.” 

“Nothing but that?” asked the prince, tim- 
idly. “ I do not want his titles and honors.” 

“ You are the heir to the throne ; you have now 
the title of Dauphin of France.” 

The little one timidly grasped the hand of his 
mother, and lifted his great blue eyes suppli- 
catingly to her. “ Mamma queen,” he whispered, 
“ do you not think the title of Duke de Normandy 
sounds just as well, or will you love me more, if I 
am called Dauphin of France ? ” 

“No, my son,” answered the queen, “I shall 
not love you better, and I should be very happy 
if you were now the Duke de Normandy.” 

“ Then, mamma,” cried the boy, eagerly, “ I 
am not at all glad to receive this new title. But 
I should like to know whether I have received 
any thing else from my dear sick brother.” 

“ Any thing else ? ” asked the king in amaze- 
ment ; “ what would you desire, my child ? ” 

The little prince cast down his eyes. “ I should 
not like to tell, papa. But if it is true that the 
dauphin has left us and is not coming back again, 
and yet has not taken away every thing which 
belongs to him, there is something which I should 
very much like to have, and which would please 
me more than that I am now the dauphin.” 

The king turned his face inquiringly to the 
queen. “Do you understand, Marie, what he 
wants to say ? ” he whispered. 

“ I think I can guess,” answered Marie Antoi- 
nette softly, and she walked quickly across the 
room, opened the door of the adjoining apartment, 
and whispered a few words to the page who was 
there. Then she returned to the king, but while 
doing so she stepped upon the bouquet which had 
fallen out of the boy’s hands when his father lifted 
him up. 

“ Oh, my pretty violets, my pretty roses,” 
cried the prince, sadly, and his face put on a sor- 
rowful expression. But he quickly brightened, 
and, looking up at the queen, he said, smiling, 
“ Mamma queen, I wish you always walked on 
flowers which I have planted and plucked for 
you ! ” 


At this moment the door softly opened, and 
a little black dog stepped in, and ran forward, 
whining, directly up to the prince. 

“Moufflet,” cried the child, falling upon his 
knee, “Moufflet ! ” 

The little dog, with its long, curly locks of hair, 
put its fore-paws upon the shoulders of the boy 
and eagerly and tenderly licked his laughing, rosy 
face. 

“ Now, my Louis,” asked the queen, “ have I 
guessed right? — ^wasn’t it the doggy that you 
wanted so much ? ” 

“ Mamma queen has guessed it,” cried the boy 
joyfully, putting his arras around the neck of the 
dog. “ Does Moufflet belong to my inheritance too ? 
Do I receive him, since my brother has left him 
behind ? ” 

“ Yes, my son, the little dog belongs to your 
inheritance,” answered the king, with a sad 
smile. 

The child shouted with pleasure, and pressed 
the dog close to his breast. “ Moufflet is mine ! ” 
he cried, glowing with joy, “ Moufflet is my inherit- 
ance ! ” 

The queen slowly raised to heaven her eyes, 
red with weeping. “ Oh, the innocence of child- 
hood, the happiness of childhood ! ” said she, softly, 
“ why do they not go with us through life ? why 
must we tread them under feet like the violets and 
roses of my son ? A kingdom falls to him as his 
portion, and yet he takes pleasure in the lit- 
tle dog which only licks his hands ! Love is the 
fairest inheritance, for love remains with us till 
death ! ” 


OHAPTEE XL 

KING LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH. 

The 14th of July had broken upon Paris 
with its fearful events. The revolution had for 
the first time opened the crater, after subterranean 
thunder had long been heard, and after the 
ground of Paris had long been shaken. The 


KING LOUIS XYI. 


85 


glowing lava-streams of intense excitement, popu- 
lar risings, and murder, had broken out and 
flooded all Paris, and before them judgment, dis- 
cretion, and truth even, had taken flight. 

The people had stormed the Bastile with arms, 
killed the governor, and for the first time the dread- 
ful cry “ To the lamp-post ! ” was heard in the 
streets of Paris ; for the first time the iron arms of 
the lamp-posts had been transformed to gallows, 
on which those were suspended whom the people 
had declared guilty. 

Meanwhile the lava-streams of revolution had 
not yet flowed out as far as Yersailles. 

On the evening of the 14th of July, peace 
and silence had settled early upon the pal- 
ace, after a whole day spent in the apartments of 
the king and queen with the greatest anxiety, and 
after resolution had followed resolution in the 
efibrts to come to a decision. 

Marie Antoinette had early withdrawn to her 
rooms. The king, too, had retired to rest, and 
had already fallen into a deep slumber upon his 
bed. He had only slept a few hours, however, 
when he heard something moving near his bed, 
with the evident intention of awakening him. 
The king recognized his valet, who, with signs of 
the greatest alarm in his face, announced the 
Duke de Liancourt, grand mailre de la garde-robe 
of his majesty, who was in the antechamber, and 
who pressingly urged an immediate audience with 
the king. Louis trembled an instant, and tried to 
think what to do. Then he rose from his bed 
with a quick and energetic motion, and ordered 
the valet to dress him at once. After this had 
been done with the utmost rapidity, the king or- 
dered that the Duke de Liancourt should be sum- 
moned to the adjacent apartment, when he would 
receive him. 

As the king went out in the greatest excitement, 
he saw the duke, whose devotion to the per- 
son of the king was well known, standing be- 
fore him with pale, distorted countenance and 
trembling limbs. 

“ What has happened, my friend ? ” asked the 
king, in breathless haste. 

“ Sire,” answered the Duke de Liancourt, with 


suppressed voice, “ in the discharge of my office, 
which permits the closest approach to your ma- 
jesty, I have undertaken to bring you tidings 
which are now so confirmed, and which are so 
important and dreadful, that it would be a folly 
to try to keep what has happened longer from 
your knowledge.” 

“You speak of the occurrences in the capi- 
tal ? ” asked the king, slightly drawing back. 

“ I have been told that your majesty has not 
yet been informed,” continued the duke, “ and 
yet in the course of yesterday the most dreadful 
events occurred in Paris. The head of the army 
had not ventured to send your majesty and the 
cabinet any report. It was known yesterday in 
Yersailles at nightfall that the people, with arms 
in their hands, had stormed and destroyed the 
Bastile. I have just received a courier from Par- 
is, and these tidings are confirmed with the most 
horrible particularity. Sire, I held it my duty aS 
a faithful servant of the crown to break the si- 
lence which has hitherto hindered your majesty 
from seeing clearly and acting accordingly. In 
Paris, not only has the Bastile been stormed by 
the people, but truly dreadful crimes and mur- 
ders have taken place. The bloody heads of De- 
launay and Flesselles were carried on pikes 
through the city by wild crowds of people. A 
part of the fortifications of the Bastile have been 
levelled. Several of the invalides, who were 
guarding the fort, have been found suspended 
from the lantern-posts. A want of fidelity has 
begun to appear in the other regiments. The 
armed people now arrayed in the streets of Paris 
are estimated at two hundred thousand men. 
They fear this very night a rising of the whole 
population of the city.” 

The king had listened standing, as in a sad 
dream. His face had become pale, but his bear- 
ing was unchanged. 

“ There is then a revolt 1 ” said Louis XYI., af- 
ter a pause, as if suddenly awakening from deep 
thought. 

“No, sire,” answered the duke, earnestly, “it 
is a revolution.” 

“The queen was right,” said the monarch, 


86 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 

< 


softly, to himself ; “ and now rivers of blood 
would be necessary to hide the ruin that has 
grown so great. But my resolution is taken ; the 
blood of the French shall not be poured out.” 

“ Sire,” cried Liancourt, with a solemn gesture, 
“ the safety of France and of the royal family 
lies in this expression of your majesty. I ought 
to be and I must be plain-spoken this hour. The 
greatest danger lies in your majesty’s following 
the faithless counsels of your mmisters. How I 
bless this hour which is granted me to stand face 
to face with your majesty, and dare to address 
myself to your own judgment and to your heart ! 
Sire, the spirit of the infatuated capital will make 
rapid and monstrous steps forward. I conjure 
you make your appearance in the National Assem- 
bly to-day, and utter there the word of peace. 
Your appearance will work wonders ; it will dis- 
arm the parties and make this body of men the 
truest allies of the crown.” 

The king looked at him with a long, penetra- 
ting glance. The youthful fire in which the noble 
duke had spoken appeared to move the king. He 
extended his hand and pressed the duke’s in his 
own. Then he said softly: “You are yourself 
one of the most influential members of this Na- 
tional Assembly, my lord duke. Can you give 
me your personal word that my appearance 
there will be viewed as indicating the interest of 
the crown in the welfare of France ? ” 

At this moment the first glow of the morning 
entered the apartment, and overpowered the pale 
candle-light which till then had illuminated the 
room. 

“ The Assembly longs every day and every 
hour for the conciliatory words of your majesty,” 
cried Liancourt. “ The doubts and disquiet into 
which the National Assembly is falling more and 
more every day are not to be dispelled in any 
other way than by the appearance of your majes- 
ty’s gracious face. I beseech you to appear to- 
day at the National Assembly. The service of 
to-day, which begins in a few hours, may take the 
most unfortunate turn, if you, sire, do not take 
this saving step.” 

Just then the door opened, and Monsieur, to- 


gether with Count d’ Artois, entered. Both broth- 
ers of the king appeared to be in the greatest ex- 
citement. From their appearauce and gestures it 
could be inferred that the news brought by the 
Duke de Liancourt had reached the palace of Ver- 
sailles. 

Liancourt at once approached the Count d’ Ar- 
tois, and said to him in decisive tones : 

“ Prince, your head is threatened by the peo- 
ple. I have with my own eyes seen the poster 
which announces this fearful proscription.” 

The prince uttered a cry of terror at these 
words, and stood in the middle of the room like 
one transfixed. 

“ It is good, if the people think so,” he said 
then, recovering himself. “ I am, like the people, 
for open war. They want my head, and I want 
their heads. Why do we not fire ? A fixed poli- 
cy, no quarter to the so-called freedom ideas — 
cannon well served ! These alone can save us ! ” 

“ His majesty the king has come to a different 
conclusion ! ” said the Duke de Liancourt, bowing 
low before the king, who stood calmly by with 
folded arms. 

“ I beg my brothers, the Count de Provence 
and the Count d’Artois, to accompany me this 
morning to the Assembly of States-General,” said 
the king, in a firm tone. “ I wish to go thither 
in order to announce to the Assembly my resolu- 
tion to withdraw my troops. At the same time I 
shall announce to them my decided wish that they 
may complete the work of their counsels in peace, 
for I have no higher aim than through them to 
learn the will of the nation.” 

Count d’Artois retreated a step in amazement. 
Upon his mobile face appeared the sharp, satiri- 
cal expression which was peculiar to the charac- 
ter of the prince. It was different with Provence, 
who, at the king’s words, quickly approached him 
to press his hand in token of cordial agreement 
and help. 

At this moment the door of the chamber was 
opened, and the queen, accompanied by several 
persons, her most intimate companioQS, entered 
in visible excitement. 

“ Does your majesty know whfc--, has hap- 


KING LOUIS XYI. 


87 


I pened?” she asked, with pale face and tearful 
eyes, as she violently grasped the king’s hand. 

“ It will be all well yet,” said the king, with 
gentle dignity ; “it will prove a help to us that 
we have nothing as yet to accuse ourselves with. 
I am resolved to go to-day to the National As- 
sembly, and to show it a sign of my personal con- 
fidence, in announcing the withdrawal of my 
troops from Paris and Versailles.” 

The queen looked at her husband with the 
greatest amazement ; then, like one in a trance, 
she dropped his hand and stood supporting her 
fair head upon her hand, with a thoughtful, pained 

I expression. 

“ By doing so your majesty will make the revo- 
\ lution an irrevocable fact,” she then said, slowly 
I raising her eyes to him ; “ and it troubles me, 

jl sire, that you will again set foot in an Assembly 

numbering so many dreadful and hostile men, and 

I in which the resolution made last month to dis- 

li 

; band it ought to have been carried into effect 
long ago.” 

I “ Has the Assembly, in fact, so many dreadful 
( members ? ” asked the king, with his good-natured 
[ smile. “Yet I see before me here two extremely 
i amiable members of that Assembly, and their 
looks really give me courage to appear there. 

j There is my old, true friend, the Duke de Lian- 

1 

j court, and even in the train of your majesty there 
! is the valiant Count de la Marck, whom I heartily 
welcome. May I not. Count de la Marck, depend 
, upon some favor with your colleagues in the Na- 
tional Assembly ? ” asked the king, with an amia- 
I ble expression. 

j “ Sire,” answered the count, in his most per- 
’ feet court manner, “ in the variety of persons con- 

I Btituting the Assembly, I do not know a single 
I one who would be able to close his heart to the 
I direct word of the monarch, and. such condescend- 
I ing grace. The nobility, to whose side I belong, 
would find itself confirmed thereby in its fidelity ; 
the clergy would thank God for the manifestation 
of royal authority which shall bring peace ; and 
the Third Estate would have to confess in its as- 
tonishment that safety comes only from the mon- 
arch’s hands.” 


The king smiled and nodded in friendly manner 
to the count. 

“ It seems to me,” he said, “ that the Jtime is 
approaching for us to go to the Assembly. Their 
royal highnesses Count de Provence and Count 
d’ Artois will accompany me. I commission the 
Duke de Liancourt to go before us to the Salle 
des Menus, and to announce to the Assembly, di- 
rectly after the opening of the session, that we 
shall appear there at once in person. 

On this the king dismissed all who were pres- 
ent. The queen took tender leave of him, in a 
manner indicating her excited feelings. She had 
never seen her royal husband bearing himself in 
so decided and confident a manner, and it almost 
awakened new confidence in her troubled breast. 
But at the same moment all the doubts and cares 
returned, and sadly, with drooping head, the 
queen withdrew. 

In the mean time, close upon the opening of 
the National Assembly that morning, stormy de- 
bates had begun about the new steps which they 
were going to take with the monarch. 

Count Mirabeau had just been breaking out 
into an anathema in flaming w^ords about the 
holiday which the king had given to the new regi- 
ments, when the Duke de Liancourt, who that 
moment entered the hall, advanced to the speak- 
er’s desk and announced that the king was just 
on the point of coming to the Assembly. The 
greatest amazement, followed immediately by in- 
tense disquiet, was expressed on all sides at hear- 
ing this. Men sprang up from their places and 
formed scattered groups to talk over this unex- 
pected circumstance and come to an understand- 
ing in advance. They spoke in loud, angry words 
about the reception which should be given to the 

4 

king in the National Assembly, when Mirabeau 
sprang upon the tribune, and, with his voice 
towering above every other sound, cried that 
“mere silent respect should be the only recep- 
tion that we give to the monarch. In a mo- 

4 

ment of universal grief, silence is the true lesson 
of kings.” 

* Mirabeau’s own words. — See “Memoires du Comte 
1 de Mirabeau,” vol. ii., p. 301. 


8S 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


A resounding bravo accompanied these words, 
which appeared to produce the deepest impression 
upon aU parties in the Assembly. 

Before the room was silent, the king, accom- 
panied by his brothers, but with no other retinue 
besides, entered the hall. Notwithstanding all 
the plans and efforts which had been made, his 
appearance at this moment wrought so powerfully 
that, as soon as they saw him, the cry “ Long 
live the king!” was taken up and repeated so 
often as to make the arched ceiling ring. 

The king stood in the midst of the Assembly, 
bearing himself modestly and with uncovered 
head. He did not make use of an arm-chair 
which was placed for him, but remained standing, 
as, without any ceremony, he began to address 
the Assembly with truly patriarchal dignity. 
When at the very outset he said that as the 
chief of the nation, as he called himself, he had 
come with confidence to meet the nation’s repre- 
sentatives, to testify his grief for what had hap- 
pened, and to consult them respecting the re- 
establishing of peace and order, a pacified expres- 
sion appeared upon almost all faces. 

With gentle and almost humble bearing the 
king then entered upon the suspicions that had 
breathed, that the persons of the deputies were 
not safe. With the tone of an honest burgher he 
referred to his own ‘‘well-knowm character,” 
which made it superfluous for him to dismiss 
such a suspicion. “ Ah ! ” he cried, “ it is I who 
have trusted myself to you ! Help me in these 
painful circumstances to strengthen the welfare 
of the state. I expect it of the National Assem- 
bly.” 

Then with a tone of touching kindness he said : 
“ Counting upon the love and fidelity of my sub- 
jects, I have given orders to the troops to with- 
draw from Paris and Versailles. At the same 
tune I commission and empower you to convey 
these my orders to the capital.” 

The king now closed his address, which had been 
interrupted by frequent expressions of delight 
and enthusiasm, but which was redeived at the 
close with a thunder of universal applause. After 
the Archbishop of Brienne had expressed the 


thanks of the Assembly in a few words, the king 
prepared to leave the hall. At that instant all 
present rose in order to follow the king’s steps. 
Silently the whole National Assembly became the 
retinue of the king, and accompanied him to the 
street. 

The king wished to return on foot to the pal- 
ace. Behind him walked the National Assembly 
in delighted, joyful ranks. The startling impor- 
tance of the occasion seemed to have overpowered 
the most hostile and the most alienated. An im- 
mense crowd of people, which had gathered be- 
fore the door of the hall, seeing the king sudden- 
ly reappear in the midst of the whole National 
Assembly, broke into jubilant cries of delight. 
The shouts, “ Long live the king I Long live the 
nation ! ” blended in a harmonious concord which 
rang far and wide. Upon the Place d’Armes 
were standing the gardes du corps, both the Swiss 
and the French, with their arms in their hands. 
But they, too, were infected with the universal 
gladness, as they saw the procession, whose like 
had never been seen before, move on. 

The cries w^hich to-day solemnized the happy 
reconciliation of the king and the people now 
were united with the discordant clang of trumpets 
and the rattle of drums on all sides. 

Upon the great balcony of the palace at Ver- 
sailles stood the queen, awaiting the return of the 
king. The thousands of voices raised in behalf 
of Louis XVI. and the nation had drawn Marie 
Antoinette to the balcony, after remaining in her 
own room with thoughts full of evil forebodings. 
She held the dauphin in her arms, and led her 
little daughter. Her eyes, from which the heavy 
veils of sadness were now withdrawn, cast joyful 
glances over the immense, shouting crowds of 
people approaching the palace, at whose head she 
joyfully recognized her husband, the king, wear- 
ing an expression of cheerfulness which for a time 
she had not seen on his face. 

When the king caught sight of his wife, he 
hastened to remove his hat and salute her. But 
few of the deputies followed the royal example, 
and silently, without any salutation, without any 
cries of acclamation, they looked up at the queen. 


/ 


KING LOUIS XVI. 


89 


Marie Antoinette turned pale, and stepped back 
with her children into the hall. 

“ It is all over,” she said, with a gush of tears, 
“ it is all over with my hopes. The Queen of 
France is still to be the poorest and most unhappy 
w'oman in France, for she is not loved, she is de- 
spised.” 

Two soft young arms were laid around her 
neck, and with a face full of sorrow, and with 
tears in his great blue eyes, the dauphin looked 
up to the disturbed countenance of his mother. 

“ Mamma queen,” he whispered, pressing fondly 
up to her, “ mamma queen, I love you and every- 
body loves you, and my dear brother in heaven 
prays for you.” 

With a loud cry of pain, that escaped her 
against her will, the queen pressed her son to her 
heart and covered his head with her kisses. 

“ Love me, my son, love me,” she whispered, 
choking, “and may thy brother in heaven pray 
for me that I may soon be released from the pains 
which I suffer ! ” 

But as she heard now the voice of the king 
without, taking leave of his retinue with friendly 
w'ords, Marie Antoinette hastily dried her tears, 
and putting down the dauphin, whispered to him, 
“ Do not tell papa that I have been crying,” and 
in her wonted lofty bearing, with a smile upon 
her trembling lips, she went to meet her hus- 
band. 

As it grew late and dark in the evening, several 
baggage-wagons heavily laden and tightly closed 
moved noiselessly and hastily from the inner 
courts of the palace, and took the direction tow- 
ard the country. In these carriages were the 
Count d’Artois, the Duke d’Angouleme, and the 
Duke de Berry, the Prince de Conde, the Duke de 
Bourbon, and the Duke d’Enghien, who \vere 
leaving the kingdom in secret flight. 

Louis XVI. had tried to quiet the anxieties of 
his brother, the Count d’Artois, by advising him 
to leave France for sonie time, and to remain in a 
foreign land, until the times should be more quiet 
and peaceful. The other princes, although not 
so sorely threatened with popular rage as the 
Coimt d’Artois, whose head had already been de- 


manded at Paris, had, with the exception of the 
king’s other brother, been so overcome with 
their anxieties as to resolve upon flight. They 
were followed on the next day by the new minis- 
ters, who now, yielding to the demands of the 
National Assembly, had handed in their resigna- 
tion to the king, but did not consider it safe to 
remain within range- of the capital. 

But another offering, and one more painful to 
the queen, had to be made to the hatred of the 
people and the hostile demands of the National 
Assembly. Marie Antoinette herself felt it, and 
had the courage to express it. Her friends the 
Polignacs must be sent away. In all the libellous 
pamphlets which had been directed against the 
queen, and which Brienne had sedulously given to 
her, it was one of the main charges which had 
been hurled against her, that the queen had given 
to her friends enormous sums from the state’s 
treasury ; that the Duchess Julia, as governess of 
the royal children, and her husband the Duke de 
Polignac, as director of the royal mews, received 
a yearly salary of two million francs ; and that the 
whole Polignac family .together drew nearly six 
million francs yearly from the national treasury. 

Marie Antoinette knew that the people hated the 
Polignacs on this account, and she wanted at least 
to put her friends in a place of safety. 

At the same hour in which the brothers of the 
king and the princes of the royal family left Ver- 
sailles, the Duke and the Duchess de Polignac 
were summoned to the queen, and Marie Antoi- 
nette had told them with trembling voice that 
they too must fly, that they must make tlieir es- 
cape that very night. But the duchess, as well 
as the duke, refused almost with indignation to 
comply with the request of the queen. The 
duchess, who before had been characterized by so 
calm a manner, now showed for the first time a 
glow of affection for her royal friend, and un- 
reckoning tenderness. “ Let us remain with you, 
Marie,” she said, choking, and throwing both her 
arms around the neck of the queen. “Do not 
drive me from you. I wdll not go, I will share 
your perils and will die for you, if it must be.” 

But Marie Antoinette found now in her great 


90 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


love the power to resist these requests — the power 
to hold back the tears which started from her 
heart and to withdraw herself from the arms of 
her friend. 

“ It must be,” she said. “ In the name of our 
friendship! conjure you, Julia, take your departure 
at once, for, if you are not willing to, I shall die 
with anxiety about you. There is still time for 
you and yours to escape the rage of my enemies. 
They hate you not for your own sake, and how 
would it be possible to hate my Julia ? It is for 
my sake, and because they hate me, that they per- 
secute my dearest friend. Go, Julia, you ought 
not to be the victim of your friendship for me.” 

“ No, I remain,” said the duchess, passionately. 
“ Nothing shall separate me from my queen.” 

Duke,” implored the queen, “ speak the 
word, say that it is necessary for you to fly ! ” 

“ Your majesty,” replied the duke, gravely, “ I 
can only repeat what Julia says : nothing shall 
separate us from our queen. If we have in the 
days of prosperity enjoyed the favor of being per- 
mitted to be near your majesty, we must claim it 
as the highest favor to be permitted to be near 
you in the days of your misfortune ! ” 

Just then the door opened and the king en- 
tered. 

“Sire,’ said the queen, as she advanced to 
meet him, “ help me to persuade these noble 
friends that they ought to leave us ! ” 

“ The queen is right,” said Louis, sadly, “ they 
must go at once. Our misfortune compels us to 
part with all who love and esteem us. I have 
just said farewell to my brother, now I say the 
same to you ; I command you to go. Pity us, 
but do not lose a minute’s time. Take your chil- 
dren and your servants with you. Reckon at all 
times upon me. We shall meet again in happier 
days, after our dangers are past, and then you 
shall both resume your old places. Farewell ! 
Once more I command you to go ! ” ^ 

And as the king perceived that the tears were 
starting into his eyes, and that his voice was 

* The king’s own words. This intense parting scene is 
strictly historical, according to the concurrent communica- 
tions of Montjoie in his “ Histoire de Marie Antoinette.” 
Compan, Mem., ii. Weber, Mem., i. 


trembling, he silently bowed to his friends, and ^ 
hastily withdrew. ^ / i 

“You have heard what the king commands,” , j| 
said Marie Antoinette, eagerly, “ and you will not \ 
venture to disobey him. Hear also this : I too, j 

the Queen of France, command you to take your i 

departure this very hour.” | 

The duke bowed low before the queen, who I 
stood with pale cheeks, but erect, and with a i 
noble air. 

“ Your majesty has commanded, and it becomes f 
us to obey. We shall go ! ” f 

Thd duchess sank, with a loud cry of grief, on 
her knee before the queen, and buried her face in [ 
the royal robe. . ! 

Marie Antoinette did not disturb her, did not 
venture to speak to her, for she knew that, with 
the flrst word which she should utter, the pain of ? 
her heart would find expression on her lips, and 
she would be composed ; she would not let her ) 
friend see how severe the sacrifice was which her > 
love compelled her to make. 

“ Let me remain with you,” implored the : ii 
duchess, “ do not drive me from you, Marie, my ' 'i 
Marie!” 

The queen turned her great eyes upward, and ‘ I 
her looks were a prayer to God to give her power i 
and steadfastness. Twice then she attempted to j 
speak, twice her voice refused to perform its duty, ■ j 
and she remained silent, wrestling with her grief, i 
and at last overcoming it. i 

“ Julia,” she said — and with every word her • 
voice became firmer and stronger — “Julia, we :j 
must part. I should be doubly unhappv to draw m 
you and yours into my misfortunes ; it will, in all ■ 
my troubles, be a consolation to me, that I have . 
been able to save you. I do not say, as the king ■ 
did, that we shall meet again in happier days, . 
and after our perils are past — ^for I do not believe - 
in any more happy days — ^we shall not be able to 
survive those perils, but shall perish in them. I 
say, farewell, to meet not in this, but in a 
better world ! Not a word more. I cannot bear 
it ! Your queen commands you to go at once ! 
Farewell I ” i 

She extended her hand firmly to her, but she 


THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1'789. 


91 


tould not look at her friend, who lay at her feet 
^jveeping and choking ; she saluted the duke "with 
a mere wave of the hand, turned quickly away, 
and hastened into the adjoining room, and then 
j] on till she reached her own toilet-room, where 
Madame de Campan was awaiting her. 

: “Campan,” she cried, in tones of anguish, 

“ Campan, it is done ! I have lost my friend ! 
I shall never see her again. Close the door, draw 
the bolt, that she cannot come in, I — I shall 
die ! ” And the queen uttered a loud cry, and 
sank in a swoon. , 

At midnight two well-packed carriages drove 
out of the inner courts of the palace. They were 
the Polignacs ; they were leaving France, to take 
refuge in Switzerland. 

I In the first carriage was the Duchess de Poli- 
; gnac, with her husband and her daughter. She 
; held two letters in her hand. Campan had giren 
her both, in the name of the queen, as she was 
I stepping into the carriage. 

j One was directed to Minister Necker, who, ax^er 
; his dismissal, had withdrawn to B^sle. Since the 
I National Assembly, the clubs, the whole popula- 
1^ lation of Paris, desired Necker’s return, and de- 
dared him to be the only man who could restore 

!■ 

! the shattered finances of the country ; the queen 
i had persuaded her husband to recall the minister, 
although an opponent of hers, and appoint him 
: again minister of finance. The letter of the 
queen, which the Duchess Julia was commis- 
sioned to give to Necker, contained his recall, an- 
nounced to him in flatterirg words. 

1 The second letter was a parting word from the 
I queen to her friend, a last cry from her heart. 

I “ Farewell,” it ran — “farewell, tenderly-loved 
! friend ! How dreadful this parting w'ord is! 

I But it is needful. Farewell ! I embrace thee 
i in spirit ! Farewell ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

I 

1 

I THE FIFTH OP OCTOBER, 1789. 

1 

I The morning dawned — a windy October morn- 
I ing, surrounding the sun with thick clouds ; so 


the daylight came late to Paris, as if fearing to 
see what had taken place on the streets and 
squares. The national guard, summoned together 
by the alarm-signal of drum-beats and the clangor 
of trumpets and horns, collected in the gray morn- 
ing light, for a fearful rumor had been spread 
through Paris the evening before, and one hhs 
whispered to another that to-morrow had been 
appointed by the clubs and by the agitators for 
a second act in the revolution, and the people are 
too quiet, they must be roused to new deeds. 

“ The people are too quiet,” that was the watch* 
word of the 4th of October, in all the clubs, and 
it was Marat who had carried it. 

On the platform of the Club de Cordeliers, the 
cry was raised loudly and hoarsely : “ Paris is in 
danger of folding its hands in its lap, praying and 
going to sleep. They must wake out of this state 
of lethargy, else the hateful, tyrannical monarchy 
will revive, and draw the nightcap so far over the 
ears of the sleeping capital, that it will stick as if 
covered with pitch, and suffer itself to relapse into 
bondage. We must awaken Paris, my friends ; 
Paris must not sleep.” 

And on the night of the 4th of October, Paris 
had not slept, for the agitators had kept it 
awake. The watch-cry had been : “ The bakers 
must not bake to-night ! Paris must to-morrow 
morning be without bread, that the people may 
open their eyes again and awake. The bakers 
must not bake to-night ! ” 

All the clubs had caught up their watch-cry, 
and their emissaries had spread it through the 
whole city, that all the bakers should be informed 
that whoever should “ open his store in the morn- 
ing, or give any other answer than this : ‘ There 
is no more meal in Paris ; we have not been able 
to bake ! ’ will be regarded as a traitor to the 
national cause, and as such, will be punished. 
Be on your guard ! ” 

The bakers had been intimidated by this threat, 
and had not baked. When Paris awoke on the 
morning of the 5th of October, it was without 
bread. People lacked their most indispensable 
article of food. 

At the outset, the women, who received these 


92 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


dreadful tidings at the bake-shops, returned dumb 
with horror to their families, to announce to their 
households and their hungry children : “ There is 
no bread to-day ! The supply of flour is ex- 
hausted ! We must starve ! There is no more 
bread to be had ! ” 

* And from the dark abode of the poor, the sad 
cry sounded out into the narrow and dirty streets 
and all the squares, “ Paris contains no bread ! 
Paris must starve ! ” 

The women, the children uttered these cries in 
wild tones of despair. The men repeated the 
words with clinched fists and with threatening 
looks : “ Paris contains no more bread ! Paris 
must starve ! ’’ 

“ And do you know why Paris must starve? ” 
croaked out a voice into the ears of the people 
who were crowding each other in wild confusion 
on the Place de Carrousel. “ Do you know who 
is the cause of all this misery and want ? ” 

“Tell us, if, you know ! ” cried a rough man’s 
voice. 

“Yes, yes, tell us ! ” shouted other voices. “We 
want to know ! ” ^ 

“I will tell you,” answered the first, in rasping 
tones ; and now upon the stones, which indicated 
where the carriage-road crossed the square, a lit- 
tle, shrunken, broad-shouldered figure, with an 
unnaturally large head, and ugly, crafty face, 
could be seen. 

“ Marat ! ” cried some man in the crowd. “ Ma- 
rat!” yelled the cobbler Simon, who had been 
since August the friend and admirer of Marat, 
and was to be seen everywhere at his side. “ Lis- 
ten, friends, listen ! Marat is going to speak to 
us ; he will tell us how it happens that Paris has 
bread no more, and that we shall all have to starve 
together ! Marat is going to speak ! ” 

“ Silence, silence ! ” scattered men commanded 
here and there. “ Silence ! ” ejaculated a gigantic 
woman, with broad, defiant face, around which 
her black hair hung in dishevelled masses, and 
which was gathered up in partly-secured knots 
under her white cap. With her broad shoulders 
and her robust arms she forced her way through 
the crowd, directing her course toward the place 


where Marat was standing, and near him Simon 
the cobbler, on whose broad shoulders, as upon a 
desk, Marat was resting one hand. 

“Silence!” cried the giantess. “Marat, the 
people’s friend, is going to speak ! Let us listen, 
for it will certainly do us good. Marat is clever 
and wise, and loves the people ! ” 

Marat’s green, blazing eyes fixed themselves 
upon the gigantic form of the woman ; he shrank 
back as if an electrical spark had touched him, ^ 
and with a wonderful expression of mingled tri^ 
umph and joy. 

“ Come nearer, goodwife ! ” he exclaimed ; “ let j 
me press your hand, and bring all the exce?"- 
lent, industrious, well-minded women of Paris to 
take Marat, the patriot, by the hand ! ” 

The woman strode to the place where Marat 
was standing and reached him her hand. No one 
in the crowd noticed that this hand of unwonted • 
delicacy and whiteness did not seem to comport 
well with the dress of a vender of vegetables . 

••I 

from the market ; no one noticed that on oue of 
the tapering fingers a jewel of no ordinary size! 

-i 

glistened. J 

Marat was the only one to notice it, and while 
pressing the offered hand of the woman in liisH 
bony fist, he stooped down and whispered in her 
ear : , : 

“ Monseigneur, take this jewelled ring off, and , i 
do not press forward too much, you might be ; 
identified ! ” j 

“ I be identified ! ” answered the woman, turn 
ing pale. “ I do not understand you. Doctor Ma-, 
rat ! ” 

“But I do,” whispered Marat, still mote softly,, 
for he saw that Simon’s little sparkling eyes were 
turned toward the woman with a look of curiosity. ^ 
“ I understand the Duke Philip d’Orleans very 
well. He wants to rouse up the people, but he is^ 
unw'illing to compromise his name or his title.- 
And that may be a very good thing. But you are 
not to disown yourself before Marat, for Marat is 
your very good friend, and will keep your secret 
honorably.” 

“ What are you whispering about ? ” shouted 
Simon. “ Why do you not speak to the people ?; 


THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1789. 


93 


! Fou were going to tell us why Paris has no bread, 
. and who is to blame that we must all starve.” 

“ Yes, yes, that is what you were going to tell 
us ! ” was shouted on all sides. “ We want to 
: know it.” 

“ Tell us, tell us ! ” cried the giantess. “ Give 
me your hand once more, that I may press it in 
! the name of all the women of Paris ! ” 

Marat with an assuring smile reached his great, 

: bony hand to the woman, who held it in both of 
her own for a moment, and then retreated and 
was lost in the crowd. 

. But in Marat’s hand now blazed the jewelled 
ring which had a moment before adorned the 
I large, soft hand of the woman. He, perhaps, did 
not know it himself ; he paid no attention to it, 

' but turned all his thoughts to the people who now 
I filled the immense square, and hemmed him in 
with thousands upon thousands of blazing eyes. 

“You want to know why you have no bread ? ” 
snarled he. “You ask why you starve? Well, 
my friends and brothers, the answer is an easy 
one to give. The baker of France has shut up 
his storehouse because the baker’s wife has told 
him to do so, because she hates the people and 
wants them to starve ! But she does not intend 
ito starve, and so she has called the baker and the 
dittle apprentices to Yersailles, where are her 
storehouses, guarded by her paid soldiers. What 
I does it concern her if the people of Paris are mis- 
j erably perishing ? She has an abundance of bread, 
for the baker must always keep his store open for 
her, and her son eats cake, while your children 
are starving! You must always keep demanding 
'that the baker, the baker’s wife, and the whole 
brood come to Paris and live in your midst, 
and then you will see how they keep their fiour, 
and you will then compel them to give you of their 
superfluous supplies.” 

“ Yes, we will make her come ! ” cried Simon 
the cobbler, with a coarse laugh. “ Up, brothers, 
up ! We must compel the baker and his wife to 
open the flour-store .to us ! ” 

“Let us go to Yersailles!” roared the great 
woman, who had posted herself among a group 
of fishwives. “ Come, my friends, let us go to 


Yersailles, and we will tell the baker’s wife that 
our children have no bread, while she is giving her 
apprentices cakes. We will demand of her that 
she give our children bread, and if she refuses 
it, we will compel her to come with her baker 
and her whole brood to Paris and starve with us ! 
Come, let us go to Yersailles !” 

“Yes, yes, let us go to Yersailles ! ” was the 
hideous cry which echoed across the square ; “ the 
baker’s wife shall give us bread ! ” 

“She keeps the keys to the stores !” howled 
Marat, “ she prevents the baker opening them.” 

“ She shall give us the keys ! ” yelled the great 
woman. “ All the mothers and all the women 
of Paris must go to Yersailles to the baker’s 
wife ! ” 

“All mothers, all women to Yersailles!” re- 
sounded in a thousand-voiced chorus over the 
square, and then through the streets, and then 
into the houses. 

And all the mothers and wives caught up these 
thundering cries, which came to them like un- 
seen voices from the air, commissioning them to 
engage in a noble, an exalted mission, calling to 
them to save Paris and procure bread for their 
children. v 

“ To Y ersailles, to Y ersailles ! All mothers and 
women to Yersailles ! ” 

Who was able to resist obeying this command, 
which no one had given, wdiich wms heard by no 
single ear, yet was intelligible to every heart — 
who could resist it ? 

The men had stormed the Bastile, the women 
must storm the heart of the baker’s wife in Yer- 
sailles, till it yield and give to the children of the 
poor the bread for which they hunger. 

“ Up, to Yersailles ! All wives and mothers ! ” 

The cry sweeps like a hurricane through the 
streets, and everywhere finds an echo in the mad- 
dened, pain-stricken, despairing, raging hearts of 
the women who see their children hunger, and 
suffer hunger themselves. 

“The baker’s wife feeds her apprentices with 
cakes, and we have not a crumb of bread to give 
to our poor little ones ! ” . 

In whole crowds the women dashed into the 


94 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


largest squares, where were the men who foment- 
ed the revolution, Marat, Danton, Santerre, Chau- 
mette, and all the rest, the speakers at the clubs ; 
there they are, giving their counsels to the mad- 
dened women, and spurring them on ! 

“ Do not be afraid, do not be turned aside ! Go 
to Versailles, brave women ! Save your children, 
your husbands, from death by starvation ! Com- 
pel the baker’s wife to give bread to you and for 
us all ! And if she conceals it from you, storm 
her palace with violence ; there will be men there 
to help you. Only be brave and undismayed, God 
will go with mothers who are bringing bread to 
their children, and your husbands will protect 
you ! ” 

They were brave and undismayed, the wives 
and mothers of Paris. In broad streams they 
rushed on; they broke over every thing which 
was in their way ; they drew all the women into 
their seething ranks. “To Versailles! To Ver- 
sailles I ” 

It was to no avail that De Bailly, the mayor 
of Paris, encountered the women on the street, 
and urged them with pressing words to return to 
their families and their work, and assured them 
that the bakers had already opened their shops, 
and had been ordered to bake bread. It was in 
vain that the general of the National Guard, La- 
fayette, had a discussion with the women, and 
tried to show them how vain and useless was their 
' action. 

Louder and louder grew the commanding cry, 
“ To Versailles ! We will bring the baker and 
his wife to Paris ! To Versailles ! ” 

The crowds of women grew more and more 
dense, and still mightier was the shout, “ To Ver- 
sailles ! ” 

Bailly went with pain to General Lafayette. 
“We must pacify them, or you, general, must 
prevent them by force I ” 

“ It is impossible,” replied Lafayette. “ How 
could we use force against defenceless women ? 
Not one of my soldiers would obey my commands, 
for these women are the wives, the mothers, the 
sisters of my soldiers ! They have no other weap- 
ons than their tongues with which to storm the 


heart of the queen I How could we conquer 
them with weapons of steel ? We must let them 
go ! But we mu^ take precautions that the king 
and the queen do not fall into danger.” 

“ That will be all the more necessary, general, 
as the women will certainly be accompanied by 
armed crowds of men, and excitement and con- ; 
fusion will accompany them all the way to Ver- 
sailles. Make haste, general, to defend Versailles, 
The columns of women are already in motion, and, 
as I have said to you, they will be accompanied 
by armed men ! ” 

“It would not be well for me to take my sol- 
diers to Versailles,” said Lafayette, shaking his 
head. “ You know, M. de Bailly, to what follies 
the reactionaries of Versailles have already led 
the royal family. All Paris speaks of nothing i 
else than of the holiday which the king and iji. 
queen have given to the royal troops, the regi- |l 
ment of Flanders, which they have summoned toil 
Versailles. The king and the queen,- with th*- 
dauphin, were present. The tri-colored cockade 
was trodden under foot, and the people were ar- 
rayed in white ribbons. Royalist songs were 
sung, the National Guard was bitterly talked of, 
and an oath was given to the king and queen ' 
that commands would only be received of them, |i 
My soldiers are exasperated, and many of my of-j 
ficers have desired of me to-day that we should' 
repair to Versailles and attack the regiment of 
Flanders and decimate them. It is, therefore, ; 
perilous to take these exasperated National Guards 
to Versailles.” 

“ And yet something must be done for the pro- i 
tection of the king,” said Bailly; “believe me, ' 
these raging troops of women are more danger- 
ous than the exasperated National Guards. Come, u 
General Lafayette, we will go to the city hall, and|j 
summon the magistracy and the leaders of thej 
National Guard, to take counsel of them.” 

An hour later the drums beat through all then 
streets of Paris, for in the city hall the resolve 
had been taken that the National Guard of Paris, 
under the lead of General Lafayette, should repair^ 
to Versailles to protect the royal family against 
the attacks of the people, but at the same time 


THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1189. 


95 


to protect the National Assembly against the at- 
! tacks of the royalist troops. 

^ But long before the troops were in motion, and 
j had really begun their march to Versailles, the 
troops of women were already on their way. 
Soldiers of the National Guard and armed men 
from the people accompanied the women, and se- 
I cured among them a certain military discipline. 

I They marched in ten separate columns, every one 
I of which consisted of more than a thousand wo- 
I men. Each column was preceded by some sol- 
diers of the National Guard, with weapons on 
their shoulders, who, of their own free will, had 
' undertaken to be the leaders. On both sides of 
, each column marched the armed men from the 
people, in order to inspire the women with cour- 
: age when they grew tired, but at the same time 
to compel those who were weary of the long jour- 
ney, or sick of the whole undertaking, and who 
f wapted to return to Paris, to come back into 
; the ranks and complete what they had begun, 
! and carry the work of revolution still further. 
^On to Versailles ! ” 

All was quiet in Versailles that day. No one 
I suspected the horrors which it was to bring 
forth. The king had gone with some of his gen- 
I tlemen to Meudon to hunt : the queen had gone 
to Trianon alone — all alone ! 

' No one of her friends was now at her side, she 
had lost them all. No one was there to share the 
j misery of the queen of all who had shared her 
happiness. The Duchess de Polignac, the prin- 
cesses of the royal house, the cheery brother of 
j the king, Count d’ Artois, the Count de Coigny, 
f Lords Besenval and Lauzun, where are they all 
now, the friends, the suppliants of former days ? 
Far, far away in distant lands, flown from the mis- 
fortune that, with its dark wings sinking, was hov- 
eling lower and lower over Versailles, and dark- 
ening with its uncanny shadows this Trianon which 
had once been so cheerful and bright. All now 
is desolate and still ! The mill rattles no more, 
the open window is swung to and fro by the wind, 
and the miller no more looks out with his good- 
natured, laughing face ; the miller of Trianon is 
no longer the king, and the burdens and cares of 


his realm have bowed his head. Tli® school- 
house, too, is desolate, and the learned master no 
longer writes his satires and jokes upon the 
great blackboard in the school-room. He now 
writes libels and pamphlets, but they are now di- 
rected against the queen, against the former mis- 
tress of Trianon. And there is the fish-pond, 
along whose shores the sheep used to pasture, 
where the courtly company, transformed into 
shepherds and shepherdesses, used to lie on the 
grass, singing songs, arranging tableaux, and lis- 
tening to the songs which the band played behind 
the thicket. All now is silent. No joyous tone 
now breaks the melancholy stillness which fills 
the shady pathways of the grove where Marie 
Antoinette, the mistress of Trianon, now walks 
with bended head and heart-broken spirit ; only 
the recollection of the past resounds as an echo 
in her inner ear, and revives the cheerful strains 
which long have been silent. 

At the fish-pond all is still, no flocks grazing on 
the shore, no picturesque groups, no songs. The 
spinning-wheel no longer whirls, the hand of the 
queen no longer turns the spindle ; she has learned 
to hold the sceptre and the pen, and to weave pub- 
lic policy, and not a net of linen. The trees 
with their variegated autumn foliage are reflected 
in the dark water of the pond ; some weeping- 
willows droop with their tapering branches down 
to the water, and a few swans come slowly sailing 
across with their necks raised in their majestic 
fashion. As they saw the figure on the shore, 
they expanded their wings and sailed quicker on, 
to pick up the crumbs which the white hands of 
the queen used to throw to them. 

But these hands have to-day no gifts for the 
solitary, forgotten swans. All the dear, pleas- 
ant customs of the past are forgotten, they have 
all ceased. 

Yet the swans have not forgotten her ; they 
sail unquietly hither and thither along the shore of 
the pond, they toss up their slender necks, and then 
plunge their red beaks down into the dark water 
seeking for the grateful bits which were not there. 
But when they saw that they were disappointed, 
they poured forth their peculiarly mournful song. 


96 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


and slowly sailed away down the lakelet into the 
obscurity of the distance, letting their complain- 
ing notes be heard from time to time. 

“ They are singing the swan’s song of my happi- 
ness,” whispered the queen, looking with tearful 
eyes at the beautiful creatures. “ They too turn 
away from me, and now I am alone, all alone.” 

She had spoken this loudly, and her quivering 
voice wakened the echo which had been artistically 
contrived there, to repeat cheery words and merry 
laughter. 

“ Alone ! ” sounded back from the walls of the 
Marlborough Tower at the end of the fish-pond. 
“ Alone !” whispered the w^ater stirred with the 
swans. “ Alone !” was the rustling cry of the bushes. 
“Alone! ” was heard in the heart of the queen, 
and she sank down upon the grass, covered her 
face with her hands, and wept aloud. 

All at once there was a cry in the distance, 
“ The queen, where is the queen ? ” 

Marie Antoinette sprang up and dried her eyes. 
No one should see that she had wept. Tears be- 
long only to solitude, but she has no longer even 
solitude. 

The voice comes nearer and nearer, and Marie 
Antoinette follows the sound. She knows that she 
is going to meet a new misfortune. People have 
not come to Trianon to bring her tidings of joy ; 
they have come to tell her that destruction awaits 
her in Yersailles, and the queen is to give audi- 
ence to it. 

A man came with hurried step from the thicket 
down the winding footpath. Marie Antoinette 
looked at him with eager, sharp eye. Who is he, 
this herald of misfortune ? No one of the court 
servants, no one of the gentry. He wears the 
simple garments of a citizen, a man of the people, 
of that Third Estate which has prepared for the 
poor queen so much trouble and sorrow. 

He had perhaps read her question in her face, 
for, as he now sank breathless at her feet, his lips 
murmured: “Forgive me, your majesty, forgive 
me that I disturb you. I am Toulan, your most 
devoted servant, and it is Madame de Campan 
who sends me.” 

“Toulan, yes, I recognize you now,” said the 


queen, hastily. “It was you, was it not, who 
brought me the sad news of the acquittal of Ro- 
han ? ” 

“ It appears, your majesty, that a cruel misfor- 
tune has always chosen me to be the bearer of 
evil tidings to my exalted queen. And to-day I 
come only with such.” 

“ What is it ? ” cried the queen, eagerly. “ Has 
any thing happened to my husband? Are my 
children threatened ? Speak quickly, say no or 
yes. Let me know the whole truth at once. Is 
the king dead ? Are my children in danger ? ” 

“No, your majesty.” 

“ No,” cried the queen, breathing a breath of 
relief. “ I thank you, sir. You see that you ac- i 
cused Fate falsely, for you have brought me good 
tidings. And yet again I thank you, for, I re- 
member, I have much to thank you for. It was 
you wdio raised your voice in the National Assem 
bly, and voted for the inviolability of the queen. 

It was not your fault, and believe me not mine 
either, that your voice was alone, that no one 
joined you. The king has been declared invio- 
lable, but not the queen, and now I am to be at- 
tacked, am I not ? Tell me what is it ? Why f 

does my faithful Campan send you to me ? ” 

“ Your majesty, to conjure you to come to Ver- 
sailles.” 

“ What has happened there ? ” , 

“Nothing as yet, your majesty, but — I was 
early this morning in Paris, and what I saw there 
determined me to come hither at once, to bring 
the news and warn your majesty.” 

“ What is it ? Why do you hesitate ? Speak 
out freely.” j 

“ Your majesty, all Paris is in motion, all Paris ; 
is marching upon Versailles I ” [ 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” asked Marie I 
Antoinette, passionately. “ What does Paris 
want? Does it mean to threaten the National I 
Assembly? Explain yourself, for you see I do N 
not understand you.” 

“Your majesty, the people of Paris hunger. 
The bakers have made no bread, for they assert 
that there is no more meal. The enemies of the 
realm have taken advantage of the excitement to 


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MARCH OF THE FISH WOMEN TO VERSAILLES 



THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1189, 


97 


Btir up the masses and even the women. The 
people are hungry; the people are coming to 
Versailles to ask the king for bread. Ten thou- 
sand women are on the road to Versailles, accom- 
panied by armed bodies of men.” 

“ Let us hasten, sir, I must go to my children,” 

' said the queen, and with quick steps she went 

« 

forward. Not a glance back, not a word of fare- 
well to the loved plantation of Trianon, and yet it 
is the last time that Marie Antoinette is to look 
upon it. She will never return hither, she turns 
her back forever upon Trianon. 

H With flying steps she hurries on ; Toulan does 
.;vnot venture to address her, and she has perhaps 
^entirely forgotten his presence. She does not 
know that a faithful one is near her; she only 
knows that her children are in Versailles, and 
that she must go to them to protect them, and to 
the king too, to die with him, if it must be. 

When they were not far from the great mall 
of the park at Versailles, the Count de St. Priest 
came running, and his frightened looks and pale 
face confirmed the news that Mr. Toulan had 
brought. 

“Your majesty,” cried the count, breathless, 
“I took the liberty of looking for your majesty 
at Trianon. Bad news has arrived.” 

“I know it,” answered the queen,'^ calmly. 
“ Ten thousand women are marching upon Ver- 
sailles, Mr. Toulan has informed me, and you see 
I am coming to receive the women.” 

All at once she stood still and turned to Toulan, 
who was walking behind her like the faithful ser- 
i vant of his mistress. 

t 

“ Sir,” said she, “ I thank you, and I know that 
I I may reckon upon you. I am sure that to-day 
' as always you have thought upon our welfare, 

I and that you will remain mindful of the oath of 

I 

! fidelity which you once gave me. Farewell ! Bo 

i 

i you go to the National Assembly. I will go to 
th^palace, and may we each do our duty.” She 
j saluted Toulan with a gentle inclination of her 
I head and with beaming looks of gratitude in her 
beautiful eyes, and then hurried on up the grand 
mall to the palace. 

In Versailles all was confusion and constema- 

1 


tion. Every one had lost his senses. Every one 
asked, and no one answered, for the only one who 
could answer, the king, was not there. He had 
not yet returned from the hunt in Mendon, 

But the queen was there, and with a grand 
calmness and matchless grasp of mind she under- 
took the duties of the king. First, she sent 
the chief equerry, the Marquis de Cubieres, to 
meet the king and cause him to hasten home at 
once. She intrusted Count St. Priest, minister 
of the interior, with a division of the guards in 
the inner court of the palace. She inspired the 
timid women with hope. She smiled at her chil- 
dren, who, timid^ and anxious at the confusion 
which surrounded them, fled to the queen for 
refuge, and clung to her. 

Barker and darker grew the reports that came 
meanwhile to the palace. They were the storm- 
birds, so to speak, that precede the tempest. They 
announced the near approach of the people of 
Paris, of the women, who were no longer un- 
armed, and who had been joined by thousands of 
the National Guard, who, in order to give the 
train of women a more imposing appearance, had 
brought two cannon with them, and who, armed 
with knives and guns, pikes and axes, and singing 
wild war-songs, were marching on as the escort 
of the women. 

The queen heard all without alarm, without 
fear. She commanded the women, who stood 
around her weeping and wringing their hands, to 
withdraw to their own apartments, and protect 
the dauphin and the princess, to lock the doors 
behind them and to admit no one — ^no one, ex- 
cepting herself. 

She took leave of the children with a kiss, and 
bade them be fearless and untroubled. She did 
not look at them as the women took them away. 
She breathed firmly as the doors closed behind 
them. 

“Now I have courage to bear every thing,” 
she said to St. Priest. “ My children are in safe- > 
ty ! Would only that the king were here ! ” 

At the same instant the door opened and the 
king entered. Marie Antoinette hastened to meet 
him, threw herself with a cry of joy into his arms, 


98 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON, 


and rested her head, which had before been erect 
with courage, heavily on his shoulder. 

“ Oh, sire, my dear sire ! thank God that you 
are here. Now I fear nothing more ! You will 
not suffer us to perish in misery ! You will 
breathe courage into these despairing ones, and 
tell the inexperienced what they have to do. 
Sire, Paris is marching against us, but with us 
there are God and France. You will defend the 
honor of France and your crown against the 
rebels ? ” 

The king answered confusedly, and as if in a 
yielding frame of mind. “We must first hear 
what the people want,” he said ; “ we must not 
approach them threateningly, we must first dis- 
cuss matters with them.” 

“ Sire,” answered the queen, in amazement, 
“ to discuss with the rebels now is to imply that 
they are in the right, and you will not, you can- 
not do that ! ” 

“ I will consult with my advisers,” said the 
king, pointing at the ministers, who, summoned 
by St. Priest, were then entering the room. 

But what a consultation was that ! Every one 
made propositions, and yet no one knew what to 
do. No one would take the responsibility of the 
matter upon himself, and yet every one felt that 
the danger increased every minute. But what to 
do ? That was the question which no one was 
able to answer, and before which the king was 
mute. Not so the queen, however. 

“ Sire ! ” cried she, with glowing cheeks, “ sire, 
you have to save the realm, and to defend it from 
revolution. The contest is here, and we cannot 
withdraw from it. Call your guards, put your- 
self at their head, and allow me to remain at your 
side. We ought not to yield to revolution, and 
if we cannot control it, we should suffer it to enter 
the palace of the kings of France only over our 
dead bodies. Sire, we must either live as kings, 
or know how to die as kings ! ” 

But Louis replied to this burst of noble valor 
in a brave woman’s soul, only with holding back 
and timidity. Plans were made and cast aside. 
They went on deliberating till the wild yells of the 
people were heard even within the palace. 


The queen, pale and yet calm, had withdrawn^ ^ 
to the adjoining apartment. There she leaned "" 
against the door and listened to the words of the 
ministers, and to the new reports which were all 
the time coming in from the streets. 

The crowd had reached Versailles, and was . 
streaming through the streets of the city in the|( 
direction of the palace. 


The National Guard of ); 
Versailles had fraternized with the Parisians ^ 


Some scattered soldiers of the royal guard had 
been threatened and insulted, and even dragged 
from their horses ! 

The queen heard all, and heard besides the 
consultation of the king and his ministers — still 
coming to no decisive results, doubting and hesi- 
tating, while the fearful crisis was advancing from 
the street. 

Already musket-shots were heard on the great 
square in front of the palace, wild cries, and loud, 
harsh voices. Marie Antoinette left her place at 
the door and hurried to the window, where a view 
could be had of the whole square. 

She saw the dark dust-cloud which hung over/ 
the road to Paris ; she saw the unridden horses, 
running in advance of the crowd, their riders,' 
members of the royal guard, having been killed 
she heard the raging discords, which surged up ’ j 
to the palace like a wave driven by the wind 
she saw this black, dreadful wave sweep along ; 
the Paris road, roaring as it went. j 

'What a fearful mass ! Howling, shrieking i 
women, with loosened hair, and with menacing ; 
gestures, extended their naked arms toward the i 
palace defiantly, their eyes fiaming, their mouths ( 
overfiowing with curses. Wild men’s figures, 
with torn blouses, the sleeves rolled up over 
dusty and dirty arms, and bearing pikes, knives, ' f 
and guns, here and there members of the Na- - 
tional Guard marching with them arm in arm, 
pressed on toward the palace. Sometimes shrieks 
and yells, sometimes coarse peals of laughter, . 
or threatening cries, issued from the confused 
crowd. 

Nearer and nearer surged the dreadful wave of 
destruction to the royal palace. Now it has _ 
reached it. Maddened fists pounded upon the SB 


THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1789. 


99 


iron gates before the inner court, and threatening 
! voices demanded entrance ; hundreds and hun- 
dreds of women shrieked with wild gestures: 
j “We want to oome in ! We want to speak with 
the baker! We will eat the queen’s guts if we 
I cannot get any thing else to eat 1 ” 
j And thousands upon thousands of women’s 
[ voices repeated — “ Yes, we will eat the queen’s 
I guts, if we get nothing else to eat 1 ” 

Marie Antoinette withdrew from the window ; 
her bearing was grave and defiant, a laugh of 
scorn played over her proudly-drawn-up upper- 
; lip, her head was erect, her step decisive, digni- 
! fied. 

I She went again to the king and his ministers. 
“ Sire,” said she, “ the people are here. It is now 
too late to supplicate them, as you wanted to do. 
Nothing remains for you except to defend your- 
self, and to save the crown for your son the dau- 
phin, even if it falls from your own head.” 
i “ It remains for us,” answered the king, grave- 

I 

i ly, “ to bring the people back to a sense of duty. 

They are deceived about us. They are excited. 

I We will try to conciliate them, and to show them 
our fatherly interest in them.” 

%The queen stared in amazement at the pleasant, 
smiling face of the king ; then, with a loud cry of 
j pain, which escaped from her breast like the last 
:■ gasp of a dying man, she turned around, and 

i went up to the Prince de Luxemburg, the captain 

I 

j of the guard, who just then entered the hall. 

. “Do you come to tell us that the people have 
taken the palace ? ” cried the queen, with an angry 
‘ burst from her very soul. 

' “Madame,” answered the prince, “had that 
been the case, I should not have been here alive. 

I Only over my body will the rabble enter the pal- 
I ace.” 

I 

! “Ah,” muttered Marie Antoinette to herself, 

j “there are men in Versailles yet, there are brave 
men yet to defend us ! ” 

“What news do you bring, captain?” asked 
j the king, stepping up. 

I “ Sire, I am come to receive your commands,” 

I 

answered the prince, bowing respectfully. “ This 
mob of shameless shrews is growing more mad- 

I « ■ 


dened, more shameless every moment. Thou- 
sands and thousands of arms are trying the gates, 
and guns are fired with steady aim at the guards. 
I beg your majesty to empower me to repel this 
attack of mad women 1 ” 

“ What an idea, captain ! ” cried Louis, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. “ Order to attack a company 
of women 1 You are joking, prince ! ” * 

And the king turned to Count de la Marck, who 
was entering the room. “ You come with new 
news. What is it, count ? ” 

“ Sire, the women are most desirous of speak- 
ing with your majesty, and presenting their griev- 
ances.” 

“I will hear them,” cried the king, eagerly. 
“ Tell the women to choose six of their number 
and bring them into my cabinet. I will go there 
myself.” 

“ Sire, you are going to give audience to revo- 
lution,” cried Marie Antoinette, seizing the arm 
of the king, who was on the point of leaving the 
room. “ I conjure you, my husband, do not be 
overpowered by your magnanimous heart ! Let 
not the majesty of the realm be defiled by the 
raging hands of these furies ! Remain here. Oh, 
sire, if my prayers, my wishes have any power 
with you, remain here ! Send a minister to treat 
with these women in your name. But do not 
confront their impudence with the dignity of the 
crown. Sire, to give them audience is to give 
audience to revolution ; and from the hour when 
it takes place, revolution has gained the victory 
over the kingly authority ! Do not go, oh do not 
go!” 

“I have given my word,” answered Louis, 
gently. “ I have sent word to the women that I 
would receive them, and they shall not say that 
the first time they set foot in the palace of 
their king, they were deceived by him. And see, 
there comes the count to take me ! ” 

And the king followed with hasty step Count 
de la Marck, who just then appeared at the 
door. 

Six women of wild demeanor, with dusty, dirty 

* The king’s own words.— See Weber, “Memoires,” 
vol. i., p. 433. 


100 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


clothes, their hair streaming out from their round 
white caps, were assembled in the cabinet of the 
king, and stared at him with defiant eyes as he 
entered. But his gentle demeanor and pleasant 
voice appeared to surprise them ; and Louise 
Chably, the speaker, who had selected the wo- 
men, found only timid, modest words, with which 
to paint to the king the misfortune, the need, and 
the pitiable condition of the people, and with 
which to entreat his pity and assistance. 

“ Ah, my children,” answered the king with a 
sigh, “ only believe me, it is not my fault that 
you are miserable, and I am still more unhappy 
than you. I will give directions to Corbeil and 
D’Estampes, the controllers of the grain-stores, to 
give out all that they can spare. If my commands 
had always been obeyed, it would be better with 
us all ! If I could do every thing, could see to 
it that my commands were everywhere carried in- 
to effect, you would not be unhappy ; and you must 
confess, at least, that your king loves you as a 
father his children, and that nothing lies so closely 
at his heart as your welfare. Go, my children, and 
tell your friends to prove worthy of the love of 
their king, and to return peaceably to Paris.” ^ 

“ Long live the king ! Long live our father ! ” 
cried the touched and pacified women, as trem- 
bling and with tears in their eyes, they left the 
royal cabinet, in order to go to the women below, 
and announce to them what the king had said. 

But the royal words found no response among 
the excited masses. 

“We are hungry, we want bread,” shouted the 
women. “ We are not going to live on words any 
more. The king shall give us bread, and then we 
sl^all see it proved that he loves us like a father ; 
then we will go back to Paris. If the baker be- 
lieves that he can satisfy us with words and fine 
speeches, he is mistaken.” 

“ If he has no bread, he shall give us his wife 
to eat ! ” roared a man with a pike in his hand and 
a red cap on his head. “ The baker’s wife has 
eaten up all our bread, and it is no more than 
fair that we should eat her up now.” 

* The king’s own words.— See A. de Beanchesne, “ Louis 
X'VX, sa Yie, son Agonie,” etc., vol. i., p. 43. 


“ Give us the heart of the queen,” was now the^ 
cry, “ give us the heart of the queen ! ” W 

Marie Antoinette heard the words, but she ap-^l 
peared not to be alarmed. With dignity and com- [ 
posure, she cast a look at the ministers and gen-**f ! 
tlemen, who, pale and speechless, had gathered^.* 
around the royal couple. V 

“ I know that this crowd has come from Parish 
to demand my head ! I learned of my mother^^ 
not to fear death, and I shall meet it with courage^ 
and steadfastness.” ^ * 

And firmly and fearlessly Marie Antoinette re-^ ^ 
mained all this dreadful evening, which was now^;i 
beginning to overshadow Versailles. Outside of ?>: 
the palace raged the uproar ; revolutionary songs ] ^ 

i: 

were sung ; veiled forms, the leaders of the revo- f-' 

■k. , 

lution, stole around, and fired the people with new ' ' 
rage against the baker and the baker’s wife.’ 
Torches were lighted to see by, and the blood-red \ , 
glare shone into the faces there, and tended to^ 
exasperate them still more. What dances were^l 
executed by the women, with torches in theii^ 
hands ! and the men roared in accompaniment|| 
ridiculing the king and threatening the queenj 
with death. j ; 

At times the torches threw their flickering ' 
glare into the windows of the palace, where were^- < 
the ministers and servants of the king, in silent 'f 
horror. Among all those counsellors of the king, : 
there was at this time but one Man, Marie Antoi-'| 
nette ! She alone preserved her steadfastness and 
discretion ; she spoke to every one friendly, inspirit- ^ 
ing words. She roused up the timid ; at times 
she even attempted to bring the king to some de- 

cisive action, and yet she did not compliin when 

■;r'> 

she found herself unable to do so. i/l 

Once her face lighted up in hope and joy. ' 
That was when a company of deputies, headed by - 
Toulan, entered the hall, to offer their services to ^ 
the royal couple, and to ask permission to be al- 
lowed to remain arouni the king and queen. , 

But scarcely had this request been granted, i 
when both the secretaries of the president of the 
National Assembly entered, warning the mem- 

* The words of the queen. — See ‘‘ Histoire de Marie , 

Antoinette,” p. 194. 


THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1789. 


101 


bers, m the name oi tne president, to return at 
once to the hall and to take part in the night ses- 
sion which was to be held. 

“They call our last friends away from us,” 
murmured the queen, “ for they want us to be 
entirely defenceless ! ” 

All at once the cries on the square below were 
more violent and loud ; musket-shots were heard ; 
at the intervals" between rose the thousand- 
voiced clamor, and at one time the thunder of a 
cannon. There was a rush of horses, and clash of 
arms, more musket-shots, and then the cry of the 
wounded. 

The king had withdrawn to hold a last consul- 
tation with his ministers and a few faithful friends. 
At this fearful noise, this sound of weapons, this 
shout of victory, his first thought was of the 
queen. He rose quickly and entered the hall. 

No one was there ; the red glare of the torches 
was thrown from below into the deserted room, 
and showed upon the wall wondrous shadows of 
contorted human figures, with clinched fists and 
with raised and threatening arms. 

The king walked hastily through the fearfully 
illuminated hall, called for the queen with a loud 
voice, burst into the cabinet, then into her sleep- 
ing-room, but no Marie Antoinette was to be 
found — no one gave reply to the anxious call of 
the king. 

More dreadful grew the wild shrieks and howls, 
the curses and maledictions which came in from 
without. 

The king sprang up the little staircase which 
led to the rooms of the children, and dashed 
through the antechamber, where the door was 
open that led to the dauphin’s sleeping-room. 

And here Louis stood still, and looked with a 
breath of relief at the group which met his tearful 
eye. The dauphin was lying in his bed fast asleep, 
with a smile on his face. Marie Antoinette stood 
erect before the bed in an attitude of proud com- 
posure. 

“ Marie,” said the king, deeply moved — “Marie, 
I was looking for you.” 

The queen slowly turned her head toward him 
and nointed at the sleeping prince. 


“ Sire,” answered she, calmly, “ I was at my 
post.” * 

Louis, overcome by the sublimity of a mother’s 
love, hastened to his wife and locked her in bis 
arms. 

“ Remain with me, Marie,” he said. “ Do not 
leave me. Breathe your courage and your decis- 
ion into me.” 

The queen sighed and sadly shook her head. 
She had not a word of reproach ; she did not say 
that she no longer believed in the courage and 
decision of the king, but she had no longer any 
hope. 

But the doors of the room now opened. 
Through one came the maids of the queen and 
the governess of the dauphin ; through the other, 
some gentlemen of the court, to call the king 
back into the audience-hail. 

After the first panic, every one had come back 
to consciousness again, and all vied in devoting 
themselves to the king and the queen. The gen- 
tlemen brought word that something new had 
oceurred, and that this was the cause of the 
dreadful tumult below upon the square. The Na- 
tional Guard of Paris had arrived ; they had fra- 
ternized with the National Guard of Yersailles, 
and with the people ; they had been received by 
the women with shouts of applause, and by the 
men with a volley of musket-shots in salutation. 
General Lafayette had entered the palace to offer 
his services to the king, and he now asked for an 
audience. 

“ Come, madame,” said Louis quickly, cheered 
up, “let us receive the general. You see that 
things are not so bad with us as you think. We 
have faithful servants yet to hasten to our assist- 
ance.” 

The queen made no reply. Quietly she fol- 
lowed the king into the hall, in which Lafayette, 
surrounded by the ministers and gentlemen, w^as 
standing. On the entrance of the royal couple, 
the general advanced to meet them with a rever- 
ential salutation. 

“ Sire,” said Lafayette, with cheerful confidence 

* This conversation, as well as this whole scene, is his- 
torical. — See Beauchesne’s “Louis XVII.,” voL i. 


102 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


— “ sire, I have come to protect your majesties 
and the National Assembly against all those who 
shall venture to threaten you.” 

“ Are you assured of the fidelity and trustwor- 
thiness of your troops ? ” asked the queen, whose 
fiamiug eyes rested upon Lafayette’s countenance 
as if she wanted to read his utmost thoughts. 

But these eyes did not confuse the cheerful 
calmness of the general. 

“ I know, madame, that I can rely upon the 
fidelity of my soldiers,” answered he, confidently. 
“ They are devoted to me to the death, and as I 
shall command them, they will watch over the 
security of the king and queen, and keep all in- 
jury from them.” 

The queen detected the touch of scorn in these 
loud-sounding words, but she pretended to believe 
them. At last she really did believe them, for 
Lafayette repeated emphatically that from this 
time nothing more was to be feared for the royal 
family, and that all danger was past. The guard 
should be chosen this night from his own troops ; 
the Paris National Guard should restore peace 
again in Versailles, and keep an eye upon the 
crowds w^hich had encamped upon the great 
square before the palace. 

Lafayette promised well for his army, for the 
howling, shrieking women, for the cursing, raging 
men. 

And the king was satisfied with these assur- 
ances of General Lafayette, and so, too, was Ma- 
rie Antoinette at last. Louis ordered the gardes 
du corps to march to Rambouillet, and reserved 
only the necessary sentinels in the palace. In 
the immediate neighborhood the soldiers of La- 
fayette were stationed. The general once more 
made the rounds, and then, as if every thing was 
in a position of the greatest security, he went 
into the palace to spend the night there, and in 
peaceful slumbers to refresh himself for the labors 
of the day. 

The king, too, had retired to his apartments, 
and the valets who had assisted his majesty to 
undress had not left the sleeping-room, when the 
loud, uniform breathing which issued from the 
silken curtains of the bed told them that the king 


had already fallen asleep. The queen, too, had 
gone to rest, and while laying her wearied and 
heavy head upon the cushions, she tenderly be- 
sought both her maids to lie down too. All was 
quiet now in the dark palace of Versailles. The 
king and the queen slept. 

But through the dark, deserted halls which that 
day had witnessed so much pain and anxiety, re- 
sounded now the clang of the raging, howling 
voices which came up from the square, and hurled 
their curses against the queen. 

In the palace of Versailles they were asleep, 
but without, before the palace. Uproar and Hate 
kept guard, and with wild thoughts of murder 
stalked around the palace of the Kings of France, 

How soon were these thoughts to become fact ! 
Sleep, Marie Antoinette, sleep ! One last hour of 
peace and security ! 

One last hour! Before the morning dawns 
Hate will awaken thee, and Murder’s terrible 
voice will resound through the halls of the Kings 
of France 1 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE NIGHT OF HORROR. 

Marie Antoinette slept! The fearful excite- 
ment of the past day and of the stormy evening, 
crowded with its events, had exhausted the pow- 
ers of the queen, and she had fallen into that 
deep, dreamless sleep which sympathetic and gra- 
cious Nature sometimes sends to those whom Fate 
pursues with sufiering and peril. 

Marie Antoinette slept ! In the interior of the 
palace a deep calm reigned, and Lafayette had 
withdrawn from the coqrt in order to sleep too. 
But below, upon this court. Revolution kept her 
vigils, and glared with looks of hatred and ven- 
geance to the dark walls behind which the queen 
was sleeping. 

The crown of France had for centuries sinned 
so much, and proved false so much, that the love 
of the people had at last been transformed into 


THE NIGHT OF HOHROR. 


103 


hate. The crown had so long sown the wind, 
that it could not wonder if it had to reap the 
whirlwind. The crimes and innovations which 
Louis XI Y. and Louis XY. had sown upon the soil 
of France, had created an abyss between the 
crown and the people, out of which revolution 
must arise to avenge those crimes and sins of the 
past upon the present. The sins of the fathers 
had to be visited upon the children to the third 
and fourth generation. 

Marie Antoinette did not know it ; she did not 
see the abyss which had opened between the 
crown and the people ; the courtiers and flatterers 
had covered it with flowers, and with the sounds 
of festivity the cries of a distressed people had 
been drowned. 

Now the flowers were torn away, the festive 
sounds had ceased, and Marie Antoinette saw the 
abyss between the crown and the people ; she 
heard the curses, the raging cries of these exas- 
perated men, who had been changed from weak, 
obedient subjects into threatening, domineering 
rebels. She looked with steady eye down into 
the abyss, and saw the monster rise from the 
depths to destroy herself and her whole house ; 
but she would not draw back, she would not yield. 
She would rather be dragged down and destroyed 
than meekly and miserably to make her way to 
the camp of her enemies, to take refuge with 
them. Better to die with the crown on her head 
than to live robbed of her crown in lowliness and 
in a subj(y?,t condition. 

Thhs thought Marie Antoinette, as at the close 
of that dreadful day she went to rest ; this was her 
prayer as she sank upon her couch : 

“ Give me power, 0 God, to die as a queen, if 
I can no longer live as a queen ! And strengthen 
my husband, that he may not only be a good man, 
but a king too ! ” 

With this prayer on her trembling lips, she had 
fallen asleep. But when Campan stole on tiptoe 
to the queen’s bed to watch her mistress while 
she slept, Marie Antoinette opened her eyes again, 
and spoke in her friendly way to her devoted ser- 
vant. 

. “ Go to bed, Campan,” said she, “ and the sec- 


ond maid must lie down too. You all need rest 
after this evil day, and sleep is so refreshing. 
Go, Campan, good-night ! ” 

Madame de Campan had to obey, and stepped 
out into the antechamber, where were the two 
other maids. 

“The queen is asleep,” she said, “and she has 
commanded us to go to rest too. Shall we do 
so ? ” 

The two women answered only with a shake of 
the head and a shrug of the shoulders. 

“ I know very well that we are agreed,” said 
Madame de Campan, reaching her hand to them. 
“ For us there must be no sleep to-night, Tor we 
must watch the queen. Come, my friends, let ms 
go into the antechamber. We shall find Mr. Yari- 
court, who will tell us what is going on outside.” 

On tiptoe the three women stole out into the 
second antechamber, which was lighted only with 
a couple of glimmering wax tapers, and in its 
desolate disorder, with the confusion of chairs, 
divans, and tables, brought back sad recollections 
of the wild women who had on the day before 
pressed into this apartment in their desire to speak 
with the queen. Somebody had told them that this 
was the antechamber of the queen, and they had 
withdrawn in order to go to the antechamber of the 
king. But they now knew the way that led to the 
apartments of the queen ; they knew now that if 
one turned to the left side of the palace, he would 
come at once into the apartments occupied by the 
royal family, and that the queen occupied the ad- 
jacent rooms, directly behind the hall of the Swiss 
Guard. 

Madame de Campan thought of this, as she 
cast her glance over this antechamber which ad- 
joined the Swiss hall, and this thought filled her 
with horror. 

Yaricoart had not yet come in; nothing dis- 
turbed the silence around her, except the dreadful 
shouting and singing outside of the palace. 

“ Let us go back into the waiting-room,” whis- 
pered her companions, “it is too gloomy here. 
Only hear how they shout and laugh ! 0 God, it 

is a fearful night ! ” 

“Yes, a fearful night,” sighed Madame de Cam- 


104 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


pan, “and the day that follows it may be yet 
more fearful. But we must not lose our courage. 
All depends upon our having decision, upon our 
defying danger, and defending our mistress. And 
see, there comes Mr. Yaricourt,” she continued, 
earnestly, as the door quickly opened, and an 
officer of the Swiss guard came in with great 
haste. 

“ Tell us, my friend, what news do you bring 
us?” 

“ Bad news,” sighed Yaricourt. “ The crowd 
is increasing every moment. New columns have 
arrived from Paris, and not only the common 
people, but the speakers and agitators are here. 
Everywhere are groups listening to the dreadful 
speeches which urge on to regicide and revolu- 
tion. It is a dreadful, horrible night. Treach- 
ery, hatred, wickedness around the palace, and 
cowardice and desertion pass out from the palace 
to them, and open the doors. Many of the royal 
soldiers have made common cause with the peo- 
ple, and walk arm in arm with them around the 
square.” 

“ And what do these dreadful men want ? ” 
asked Campan. “ Why do they encamp around 
the palace ? What is their object ? ” 

Mr. Yaricourt sadly bowed his head, and a 
loud sigh came from his courageous breast. 
“ They want what they shall never have while I 
am alive,” he then said, with a decided look. “ I 
have sworn fidelity to the king and queen, and I 
shall keep it to death. My duty calls me, for the 
hour of changing guards is near, and my post is 
below^ at the great staircase which leads up here. 
We shall meet at daylight, if I am then alive. 
But till then we shall do our duty. I shall guard 
the grand staircase, do you guard the sleeping- 
room of the queen.” 

“ Yes, we will do our duty,” answered Madame 
de Campan, extending her hand to him. “We 
will watch over those to whom we have devoted 
ourselves, and to whom we have vowed fidelity. 
No one shall pass into the chamber of the queen 
while we are alive, shall there ? ” 

“Never,” replied both of the women, with 
courageous decision. 


“ And no one shall ascend the great staircase 
so long as I live,” said Yaricourt. “Adieu now, 
ladies, and listen carefully to every sound. If a 
voice calls to you, ‘ It is time,’ wake the queen 
and save her, for danger will then be right upon 
her. Hark, it is striking three, that is the hour 
of changing guard. Farewell ! ” 

He went quickly to the door, but there he 
stood still, and turned once more around. His 
glance encountered that of his friend, and Mad- 
dame de Campan understood its silent language 
well, for she hastened to him. 

“ You have something to say to me ? ” 

“Yes,” he whispered softly, “I have a presen- 
timent that I shall not survive the horrors of this 
night. I have one whom I love, who, as you 
know, is betrothed to me. If I fall in the service 
of the king, I ask you to see my Cecilia, and tell 
her that I died with her name upon my lips ! 
Tell her not to weep for me, but at the same time 
not to forget me. Farewell.” 

He hurriedly opened the door and hastened 
away. Madame de Campan repressed the tears 
which would fill her eyes, and turned to the two 
maids. 

“ Now,” said she, with decisive tones, “ let us 
return to the waiting-room and watch the door of 
the queen’s chamber.” 

With a firm step she walked on, and the ladies 
followed. Without any noise they entered the 
little hall, where in the mornings those ladies 
of the court used to gather who had the Hght to 
be present while the queen dressed herself. 

Madame de Campan looked the door through 
which they had entered, behind her, drew out the 
key and hid it in her pocket. 

“ No one wiU enter here with my will,” said 
she. “ Now we will place chairs before the door, 
of the sleeping-room, and sit there. We shall 
then have erected a barricade before our queen, ' 
a wall which will be as strong as any other, for 
there beat three courageous hearts within it.” 

They sat down upon the chairs, whose high 
backs leaned against the door of the queen’s 
room, and, taking one another’s hands, began their 
hallowed watch. 


THE NIGHT OF HORROR. 


105 


ill was still and desolate around them. No 
one of the women could break the silence with a 
woii or a remark. With dumb lips, with open 
eyei the three watchers sat and hearkened to the 
soums of the night. At times, when the roaring 
witnput was uncommonly loud and wild, they 
pressed one another’s hands, and spoke to one 
anotier in looks ; but when the sounds died 
awawthey turned their eyes once more to the 
wind(Ws and listened. 

Slowly, dreadfully slowly moved the fingers of 
the gifcat clock above on the chimney. Madame 
de Cahpan often fixed her gaze upon it, and it 
seemet to her as if time must have ceased to go 
on, foijit appeared to be an eternity since Yari- 

court liad taken leave of her, and yet the two 

i 

longer pngers on the dial had not indicated the 
fourth hour after midnight. But the pendulum 
still cctntinued its regular, even swinging; the 
time wdit forward ; only every moment made the 
horror, the fear of unknown danger seem li^'^ an 
eternitj ! 

At la?t, slowly, with calm str^&e, the hour began 
to strilie four o’clock- And amid the dreadful 
sounds mtside palace, the women could recog- 
nize the <ieep tones of the great clock on the Swiss 
ball. Four o’clock ! One solitary, dreadful hour 
is passed ! Three hours more, three eternities 
before daylight comes ! 

But hark ! what new, fearful noise without ? 
That is DO more the sound of singing and shout- 
ing, and erying — that is the battle-cry — that is the 
rattle and clatter of muskets. The three women 
sprang up, moved as if by one thought, animated 
by one purpose. They moved the chairs back 
from the door, ready, as soon as danger should 
approach, to go into the chamber of the queen 
and awaken her. Campan then slipped across the 
room to the door of the antechamber, which she 
had locked before. She laid her ear to the key- 
hole, and listened. All was still and quiet in the 
next room ; no one was in the antechamber. 
There was no immediate danger near, for Yari- 
court’s voice had not yet uttered the cry of warn- 
ing. 

But more fearful grew the noise outside. The 


crackle of musketry was more noticeable, and 
every now and then there seemed to be heavy 
strokes as if directed against the palace, sounding 
as if the people were attempting to force the iron 
gate of the front court. 

“ I must know what is going on,” whispered 
Campan, and with cool decision she put the key 
into the door, turned it, entered the antechamber, 
and flew to the window, where there was a view 
of the whole court ; and a fearful sight met her 
there. The crowd had broken the gate, pressed 
into the court, and was surging in great masses 
toward the palace doors. Here and there torches 
threw their glare over these masses, dis‘?^^sing 
men with angry gestures, and wome^’ stream- 
ing hair, swinging their arms savagely, and seem- 
ing like a picture of boil, not to be surpassed in 
horror even bv ^tie phantasms of Dante. Women 
changp^^ to furies and bacchanalians, roaring and 
sliouting in their murderous desires ; men, like 
bloodthirsty tigers, preparing to spring upon 
their prey, and give it the death-stroke ; swing- 
ing pikes and guns, which gleamed horribly in 
the glare of the torches ; arms and fists bearing 
threatening daggers and knives ! All this was 
pressing on upon the palace — all these clinched 
fists would soon be engaged in hammering upon 
the walls which separated the king and queen 
from the people — the executioner from his vic- 
tim ! 

All at once there rang out a fearful, thundering 
cry, which made the windows rattle, and called 
forth a terrible echo above in the deserted hall ; 
for through all these shrieks and howls, there re- 
sounded now a piercing cry, such as only the 
greatest pain or the most instant need can extort 
from human lips. 

“That was a death-cry,” whispered Madame 
de Campan, trembling, and drawing back from 
the window. “They have certainly killed the 
Swiss guards, who are keeping the door ; they 
will now pour into the palace. 0 God I what 
will become of Yaricourt ? I must know what is 
going on ! ” 

She flew through the antechamber and opened 
the door of the Swiss hall. It was empty, but 


106 


MARIE ANTOINETTE Am HER SON. 


outside of it could be heard a confused, mixed 
mass of sounds, cries, and the tramping as of 
hundreds and hundreds of men coming on. 
Nearer and nearer came the sound, more distinct 
every moment. All at once the door was flung 
open on the other side of the Swiss hall, the door 
which led out, and Yaricourt appeared in it, 
pushed backward by the raging, howling mass. 
He still sought to resist the oncoming tramp of 
these savage men, and, with a movement like 
lightning, putting his weapon across the door, 
he was able for one minute to hold the place 
against the tide— just so long as the arms which 
held 'weapon had in them the pulse of life! 
Yaricourt looked like a dying man ; his uniform 
was torn and cut, face deathly pale, and on 
one side disfigured by blood which was 
streaming down from a broad wound in his fore- 
head. 

“ It is time, it is time ! ” he cried, with a loud 
tremulous voice, and, as he saw for an instant the 
face of Campan at the opposite door, a flash of 
joy passed over his face. 

“ Save the queen 1 They will murder her ! ” * 

Madame de Campan hastily closed the door, 
drew the great bolt, and then sprang through the 
antechamber into the waiting-room, and bolted its 
door too. Then, after she had done that — after 
-she had raised this double wall between the sleep- 
ing queen and the raging mob — she sank upon her 
knees like one who was utterly crushed, and 
raised her folded hands to heaven. 

‘‘Have mercy on his soul, 0 God! take him 
graciously to heaven ! ” whispered she, with 
trembling lips. 

“ Eor whom are you praying ? ” asked the two 
women, in low voices, hurrying up to her. “ Who 
is dead ? ” 

“Mr. Yaricourt,” answered Campan, with a 
sigh. “ I heard his death-cry, as I was bolting 
the door of the antechamber. But we cannot 
stop to weep and lament. We must save the 
queen ! ” 

And she sprang up from her knees, flew through 

* Yaiicourt’s last words.— See “M^moires de Madame 
de Campan^^’ vol. di., p. T7. 


the room, and opened the door leading to the 
queen’s chamber. 

At that moment a fearful crash was heird, 
then a loud shout of triumph in the outer ante- 
chamber. 

“ The queen ! We want the heart of the 
queen ! ” 

“ They have broken down the door of the ante- 
chamber — they are in the waiting-room ! ” whis- 
pered Campan. “ There is no time to be lost. 
Come, friends, come ! ” 

And she hastened to the bed of the queei, who 
was still lying in that heavy, unrefreshing sleep 
which usually follows exhaustion and interse ex- 
citement. 

“ Your majesty, your majesty, wake ! ” 

“ What is it, Campan ? ” asked Marie Antoi- 
nette, opening her eyes, and hastily sitting up in 
bed. “ Why do you waken me ? What lus hap- 
pened ? ” 

The €Barful sounds without, the crashing of the 
door of the liitu waiting-room, gave answei. The 
rough, hard voices the exasperated vomen, 
separated now from the qufc<iTi by only oie thin 
door, quickly told all that had happened. 

Marie Antoinette sprang from her bed. *' Dress 
me quick, quick ! ” 

“ Impossible ! There is no time. Orly hear 
how the gunstocks beat against the door ! They 
will break it down, and then your majesty is 
lost ! The' clothes on without stopping to fasten 
them ! Now fly, your mojesty, fly ! Through the 
side-door — through the (Eil de Boeuf ! ” 

Madame de Campan went in advance ; the two 
women supported the queen and carried her loose 
clothes, and then they flew on through the stiU 
and deserted corridors to the sleeping-room of the 
king. 

It was empty — no one there ! 

“ 0 God ! Campan, where is the king ? I must 
go to him. My place is by his side ! Where is 
the king ? ” 

“ Here I am, Marie, here ! ” cried the king, who 
just then entered and saw the eager, anxious face 
of his wife. “ I hurried to save our most costly 
possessions ! ” 


THE NIGHT OF HORROR. 


107 


He laid the dauphin, only half awake, and lying 
on his breast, in the arms which Marie Antoinette 
extended to him, and then led her little daughter 
to her, who had been brought in by Madame 
Tourzel. 

“Now,” said the king, calmly, “now that I 
have collected my dearest treasures, I will go and 
see what is going on.” 

But Marie Antoinette held him back. “ There is 
destruction, treachery, and murder outside. Crime 
may break in here and overwhelm us, but we 
ought not to go out and seek it.” 

“ Well,” said the king, “ we will remain here 
and await what comes.” 

And turning to his valet, who was then enter- 
ing, Louis continued: “Bring me my chocolate, 
I want to take advantage of the time to breakfast, 
for I am hungry ! ” 

“ Sire, now ? shall we breakfast now ? ” asked 
the queen, amazed. 

“ Why not ?” answered Louis calmly. “ If the 
body is strengthened, we look at every thing more 
composedly and confidently. You must take 
breakfast too, Marie, for who knows whether we 
shall find time for some hours after this ? ” 

“I ! oh, I need no breakfast,” cried Marie An- 
toinette ; and as she saw Louis eagerly taking a 
cup of chocolate from the hands of a valet, and 
was going to enjoy it, she turned away to repress 
the tears of anger and pain which in spite of 
herself pressed into her eyes. 

“ Mamma queen,” cried the dauphin, who was 
yet in her arms, “ I should like my breakfast too. 
My chocolate — I should like my chocolate too ! ” 

The queen compelled herself to smile, carried 
the child to its father, and softly set him down on 
the king’s knee. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ will the King of France teach 
his son to take breakfast, while revolution is 
thundering without, and breaking down, with 
treasonable hands, the doors of the royal palace ? 
Campan, come here — ^help me arrange my toilet ; 
I want to prepare myself to give audience to revo- 
lution ! ” 

And withdrawing to a corner of the room, the 
queen finished her toilet, for which her women 


fortunately had in their flight brought the mate* 
rials. 

While the queen was dressing and the king 
breakfasting with the children, the eabinet of the 
king began to fill. All Louis’s faithful servants, 
then the ministers and some of the deputies, had 
hurried to the palace to be at the side of the 
king and queen at the hour of danger. 

Every one of them brought new tidings of hor- 
ror. St. Priest told how he, entering the Swiss 
room, at the door leading into the antecham- 
ber of the queen, had seen the body of Yari- 
court covered with wounds. The Duke de Lian- 
court had seen a dreadful man, of gigantic size, 
with heavy beard, the arms of his blouse rolled 
up high, and bearing a heavy hatchet-knife in his 
hand, springing upon the person of the faithful 
Swiss, in order to sever his head from his body. 
The Count de Borennes had seen the corpse of the 
Swiss oflScer, Baron de Deshuttes, who guarded 
the iron gate, and whom the people murdered as 
they entered. The Marquis de Croissy told of 
the heroism with which another Swiss, Miomandre 
of St. Marie, had defended the door between the 
suites of the king and queen, and had gained time 
to draw the bolt and barricade the door. And during 
all these reports, and while the cabinet was filling 
more and more with pale men and women, the 
king went composedly on dispatching his break- 
fast. 

The queen, who had long before completed her 
toilet, now went up to him, and with gentle, 
tremulous voice conjured him to declare what 
should be done — to come at last out of this silence, 
and to speak and act worthy of a king. 

Louis shrugged his shoulders and set the re- 
plenished cup which he was just lifting to his 
mouth, on the silver waiter. At once the queen 
beckoned to the valet Hue to come up. 

“ Sir,” said she, commandingly, “ take these 
things out. The king has finished his breakfast.” 

Louis sighed, and with his eye followed the 
valet, who was carrying the breakfast into the 
garde-robe. 

“ Now, sire,” whispered Marie Antoinette, “ sho^ 
yourself a king.” 


108 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ My love,” replied the king, quietly, “ it is very 
hard to show myself a king when the people do 
not choose to regard me as one. Only hear that 
shouting and yelling, and then tell me what I can 
do as a king to bring these mad men to peace and 
reason ? ” 

“ Sire, raise your voice as king ; tell them that 
you will avenge the crimes of this night, take the 
sword in your hand and defend the throne of your 
fathers and the throne of your son, and then you 
will see these rebels retire, and you will collect 
around you men who will be animated with fresh 
courage, and who will take new fire from your ex- 
ample. Oh, sire, disregard now the pleadings of 
your noble, gentle heart ; show yourself firm and 
decided. Have no leniency for traitors and 
rebels ! ” 

“ Tell me what I shall do,” murmured the king, 
with a sigh. 

Marie Antoinette stooped down to his ear. 
“ Sire,” whispered she, “ send at once to Vin- 
cennes, and the other neighboring places. Order 
the troops to come hither, collect an army, put 
yourself at its head, march on Paris, declare war 
on the rebellious capital, and you will march as 
conqueror into your recaptured city. Oh, only no 
yielding, no submission ! Only give the order, 
sire ; say that you will do so, and I will summon 
one of my faithful ones to give him orders to 
hasten to Vincennes.” 

And while the queen whispered eagerly to the 
king, her flashing glance sped across to Toulan, 
who, in the tumult, had found means to come in, 
and now looked straight at the queen. Now, as 
her glance came to him as an unspoken command, 
he made his way irresistibly forward through the 
crowd of courtiers, ministers, and ladies, and now 
stood directly behind the queen. 

“ Has your majesty orders for me ? ” he asked, 
softly. 

She looked anxiously at the king, waiting for 
an answer, an order. But the king was dumb ; 
in order not to answer his wife, he drew the dau- 
phin closer to him and caressed him. 

“ Has your majesty commands for me ? ” asked 
Toulan once more. 


Marie Antoinette turned to him, her eyes suf- 
fused with tears, and let Toulan see her face dark- 
ened with grief and despair. 

“ No,” she whispered, “ I have only to obey ; I 
have no commands to give ! ” 

“ Lafayette,” was now heard in the corridor — 
“ General Lafayette is coming ! ” 

The queen advanced with hasty steps toward 
the entering general. 

“ Sir,” she cried, “ is this the peace and security 
that you promised us, and for which you pledged 
your word ? Hear that shouting without, see us 
as if beleaguei-ed here, and then tell me how it 
agrees with the assurances which you made to 
me ! ” 

“Madame, I have been myself deceived,” an- 
swered Lafayette. “ The most sacred promises 
were made to me ; all my requests and proposi- 
tions were yielded to. I succeeded in pacifying 
the crowd, and I really believed and hoped that 
they would continue quiet ; that — ” 

“ Sir,” interrupted the queen, impatiently, 
“ Whom do you mean by ‘ they ? ’ Of whom are 
you speaking in such tones of respect ? ” 

“ Madame, I am speaking of the people, with 
whom I came to an understanding, and who 
promised me to keep the peace, and to respect 
the slumbers of your majesty,” 

“ You are not speaking of the people, but of 
the rebels, the agitators,” cried Marie Antoinette, 
with flashing eyes. “ You speak of high traitors, 
who break violently into the palace of the king ; 
of murderers, who have destroyed two of our 
faithful subjects. Sir, it is of such crime that 
you speak with respect ; it is with such a rabble 
that you have dealt, instead of ordering your sol- 
diers to cut them down.” 

“ Madame,” said Lafayette, turning pale, “ had 
I attempted to do that, your majesty would not 
have found refuge in this chamber. For the an- 
ger of the mob is like the lightning and thunder 
of the tempest, it heeds neither door nor bolt, 
and if it has once broken loose, nothing can re- 
strain or stop it.” 

“ Oh,” cried the queen, with a mocking laugh, 
“it is plain that Mr. Lafayette has been pursuing 


THE NIGHT OF HORROR. 


109 


his studies in America, at the university of revo- 
lutions. He speaks of the people with a defer- 
ence as if it were another majesty to bow to.” 

“ And in that Lafayette is right,” said the king, 
rising and approaching them. “ Hear the yell, 
madame ! it sounds like the roaring of lions, and 
you know, Marie, that the lion is called the king 
of beasts. Tell us, general, what does the lion 
want, and what does his roaring mean ? ” 

“ Sire, the enemies of the royal family, the agi- 
tators and rebels, who have within these last 
hours come from Paris, have urged on the people 
afresh, and kindled them with senseless calum- 
nies. They have persuaded the people that your 
majesty has summoned hither the regiments from 
all the neighboring stations ; that you are collect- 
ing an army to put yourself at its head and march 
against Paris.” 

Louis cast a significant look at his wife, which 
was answered with a proud toss of her head. 

“ I have sought in vain,” continued Lafayette, 
“ to make the poor, misguided men conscious of 
the impossibility of such a plan.” 

“Yet, sir,” broke in Marie Antoinette, fiercely, 
“ the execution of this plan would save the crown 
from dishonor and humiliation ! ” 

“ Only, madame, that it is exactly the execu- 
tion of it which is impossible,” answered Lafay- 
ette, gently bowing. “ If you could give wings 
to the soldiers of the various garrisons away from 
here, the plan might be good, and the army might 
save the country ! But as, unfortunately, this 
cannot be, we must think of other means of help, 
for your majesty hears the danger knocking now 
at the door, and we must do with pacificatory 
measures what we cannot do with force.” 

“ How will you use pacificatory measures, 
sir ? ” asked Marie Antoinette, angrily. 

Lafayette cast upon her a sad, pained look, and 
turned to the king. “ Sire,” said he, with loud, 
solemn voice, “ sire, the people are frightfully car- 
ried away. Stimulating speeches have driven 
them to despair and to madness. It is only with 
difficulty that we have succeeded in keeping the 
mob out of the palace, and closing the door 
again. ‘Paris shall be laid in ashes ! ’ is the horri- 


ble cry which drives all these hearts to rage, and 
to which they give unconditional belief! ” 

“ I will show myself to the people,” said Louis. 
“ I will tell them that they have been deceived. 
I will give them my royal word that I have no 
hostile designs whatever against Paris.” 

General Lafayette sighed, and dropped his head 
heavily upon his breast. 

“ Do you counsel me not to do this ? ” asked 
the king, timidly. 

‘‘ Sire,” answered the general, with a shrug, 
“ the people are now in such an excited, unreason- 
able state, that words will not longer be sufficient 
to satisfy them. Your majesty might assure them 
ever so solemnly that you entertain no hostile 
intentions whatever against Paris, and that you 
will not call outside help to your assistance, and 
the exasperated people would mistrust your as- 
surances ! For in all their rage the people have 
a distinct consciousness of the crimes they are 
engaged in committing in creating this rebellion 
against the crown, and they know that it were not 
human, that it were divine, for your majesty to 
forgive such crimes, and therefore they would not 
credit such forgiveness.” 

“How well General Lafayette knows how to 
interpret the thoughts of this fanatical rabble, 
whom he calls ‘the people!’” ejaculated the 
queen, with a scornful laugh. 

At this instant a loud, thundering cry was 
heard below, and thousands upon thousands of 
voices shouted, “ The king ! We want to see the 
king ! ” 

Louis’s face lighted up. With quick step he 
hurried to the window and raised it. The people 
did not see him at once, but the king saw. He 
saw the immense square in front of the palace, 
which had been devoted to the rich equipages of 
the nobility, occupied by the humbler classes — the 
troops of his staff marching up in their gala uni- 
forms — he saw it filled with a dense mass of men 
whom Lafayette had called “ the people,” whom 
the queen had termed a “ riotous rabble,” surging 
up and down, head pressed to head, here and 
there faces distorted with rage, eyes blazing^ fists 
clinched, arms bare, and pikes glistening in the 


110 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


moming light, while a great roar, like that which 
comes from the sea in a tempest, filled the air. 

« You are right, Lafayette,” said the king, who 
looked calmly at this black sea of human life — 
“ you are right, this is the people ; there are 
here probably twenty thousand men, and Heaven 
defend me from regarding all as criminals and 
rabble ! I believe — ” 

A tremendous shout now filled the air. The 
king had been seen, some one had noticed him at 
the open window, and now all heads and all looks 
were directed to this window, and twenty thou- 
sand voices cried, “Long live the king! Long 
live the king ! ” 

Louis turned with a proud, happy look to the 
gentlemen and ministers who stood near him, 
Marie Antoinette having withdrawn to the farthest 
comer of the room, where, throwing her arms 
around both of the children, and drawing them 
to her bosom, she had sunk into a chair. 

“What do you say now, gentlemen?” asked 
the king. “Did they not want to make me be- 
lieve that my good people hate their king, and 
wish him ill ? But when I show myself to them, 
hear how they shout to greet me 1 ” 

“ To Paris ! ” was now the roar of the mob be- 
low. “We want the king should go to Paris ! ” 

“ What do they say ? What do they want ? ” 
asked Louis, turning to Lafayette, who now stood 
close beside him. 

“ Sire, they are shouting their wishes to you, 
that you and the royal family should go to Paris.” 

“ And you, general, what do you say ? ’ ’ asked 
the king. 

“ Sire, I have taken the liberty already to say 
that words and promises are of no more avail to 
quiet this raving, maddened people, and to make 
them believe that you have no hostile designs 
against Paris.” 

“ But if I go to Paris and reside there for a 
time, it is your opinion, as I understand it, that 
the people would be convinced that I have no evil 
intentions against the city — that I should not un- 
dertake to destroy the city in which I might live. 
That is your meaning, is it not ? ” 

“ Yes, sire, that is what I wanted to say.” 


“ To Paris, to Paris ! ” thundered up from bo* 
low. “ The king shall go to Paris 1 ” 

Louis withdrew from the window and joined 
the circle of his ministers, who, with their pale 
faces, surrounded him. 

“Gentlemen,” said the king, “you are my 
counsellors. Well, give me your counsel. Tell 
me now what I shall do to restore peace and 
quiet.” 

But no one replied. Perplexed and confused 
they looked down to the ground, and only Necker 
found courage to answer the king after a long 
pause. 

“ Sire,” he said, “ it is a question that might 
be considered for days which your majesty has 
submitted to us, and on its answer depends, per- 
haps, the whole fate of the monarchy. But, as 
you wish to know the opinions of your minis- 
ters, I will venture to give mine : that it would 
be the safest and most expedient course for 
your majesty to comply with the wishes of the 
people, and go to Paris ! ” 

“ I supposed so,” whispered the king, dropping 
his head. 

“ To Paris ! ” cried the queen, raising her head. 
“ It is impossible. You cannot be in earnest in 
being willing to go of your own accord down into 
the abyss of revolution, in order to be destroyed 
there! To Paris!” 

“ To Paris ! ” was the thundering cry from be- 
low, as if the words of the queen had awakened 
a fearful, thousand-voiced echo. “ To Paris ! The 
king and the queen shall go to Paris ! ” 

“ And never come from there ! ” cried the queen, 
with bursting tears. 

“ Speak, Lafayette ! ” cried the king. “ What 
do you think ? ” 

“ Sire, I think that there is only one way to re- 
store peace and to quiet the people, and that 
is, for your majesty to go to-day with the royal 
family to Paris.” 

“It is my view, too,” said Louis, calmly. 
“ Then go, Lafayette, tell the people that the king 
and queen, together with the dauphin and the 
princess, will journey to-day to Paris.” 

The simple and easily spoken words had two 


THE NIGHT OF HORROR. 


Ill 


very different effects in tlie cabinet on those who 
heard them. Some faces lightened up with joy, 
some grew pale with alarm ; there were sighs of 
despair, and cries of fresh hope. Every one felt 
that this was a crisis in the fate of the royal fam- 
ily — some thinking that it would bring disaster, 
others deliverance. 

The queen alone put on now a grave, decided 
look ; a lofty pride lighted up her high brow, and 
with an almost joyful expression she looked at 
her husband, who had been induced to do some- 
thine: — at least, to take a decisive step. 

“The king has spoken,” she said, amid the 
profoundest silence, “ and it becomes us to obey 
the will of the king, and to be subject to it. 
Madame de Campan, make all the preparations 
for my departure, and do it in view of a long 
stay in Paris ! ” 

“ Now, Lafayette,” asked the king, as the gen- 
eral still delayed in the room, “ why do you not 
hasten to iinnounce my will to the people ? ” 

“rfire,” answered Lafayette, solemnly, “there 
are moments when a people can only be pacified 
by the voice either of God or of its king, and 


where every other human voice is overwhelmed by 
the thunder of the storm ! ” 

“ And you think that this is such a moment ? ” 
asked the king. “You think that I ought my- 
self to announce to the people what I mean to 
do?” 

Lafayette bowed and pointed to the window, 
which shook even then with the threatening cry, 
“ The king ! We will see the king ! He shall go 
to Paris ! The king, the king ! ” 

Louis listened awhile in thoughtful silence to 
this thundering shout, which was at once so full 
of majesty and horror ; then he quickly raised his 
head. 

“ I will follow your advice, general,” said he, 
calmly. “I will announce my decision to the 
people. Give me your hand, madame, we will go 
into the balcony-room. And you, gentlemen, fol- 
low me ! ” 

The queen took the hand of her husband with- 
out a word, and gave the other to the little dau- 
phin, who timidly clung to her, while her daugh- 
ter Therese quietly and composedly walked near 
them. 


BOOK III 


CHAPTER XIV. 

TO PARIS. 

Without speaking a word, and with hasty 
steps, the royal couple, followed by the ministers 
and courtiers, traversed the two adjoining apart- 
ments, and entered the balcony-room, which, sit- 
uated at the centre of the main building, com- 
manded a wide view of the inner court and the 
square in front of it. 

The valet Hue hastened, at a motion from the 
king, to throw open the great folding doors, and 
the king, parting with a smile from Marie Antoi- 
nette, stepped out upon the balcony. In an in- 
stant, as if the arm of God had been extend- 
ed and laid upon this raging sea, the roaring 
ceased ; then, as soon as the king was recog- 
nized, a multitudinous shout went up, increasing 
every moment, and sending its waves beyond the 
square, out into the adjoining streets. 

“ The king ! Long live the king ! ” 

Louis, pale with emotion and with tears in his 
eyes, went forward to the very edge of the bal- 
cony, and, as a sign that he was going to speak, 
raised both hands. The motion was under- 
stood, and the loud cries were hushed which 
now and then burst from the mighty mass of peo- 
ple. Then above the heads of the thousands 
there who gazed breathlessly up, sounded the 
loud, powerful voice of the king. 

“I will give my dear people the proof that my 
fatherly heart is distrusted without reason. I will 
journey to-day with the queen and my children to 


Paris, and there take up my residence. Return 
thither, my children, I shall follow you in a few 
hours and come to Paris ! ” 

Then, while the people were breaking out into 
a cry of joy, and were throwing arms, caps, and 
clothes up into the air, Louis stepped back from 
the balcony into the hall. 

Instantly there arose a new cry below. “ The 
queen shall show herself! We want to see the 
queen ! The queen ! the queen ! the queen 1 ” 

And in tones louder, and more commanding, and 
more terrible every moment, the summons came 
in through the balcony door. 

The queen took her two children by the hand 
and advanced a step or two, but the king held her 
back. 

“ Do not go, Marie,” he cried, with trembling 
voice and anxious look. “ No, do not go. It is 
such a fearful sight, this raging mass at one’s 
feet, it confuses one’s senses. Do not go, Mo- 
rie 1 ” 

But the cry below had now expanded into the 
volume of a hurricane, and made the very walls 
of the palace shake. 

“ You hear plainly, sire,” cried Marie Antoi- 
nette; “there is just as much danger whether we 
see or do not see it. Let me do, therefore, what 
you have done 1 Come, children ! ” 

And walking between the two little ones, the 
queen stepped out upon the balcony with a firm 
step and raised head, followed by the king, whc 
placed himself behind Marie Antoinette, as if he 
were a sentinel charged with the duty of protect 
ing her life. 



THE KINO PKOMISTNO TO KETURN TO PARIS. 


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♦ • •••■ 



TO PARIS. 


113 


But the appearance of the whole royal family 
did not produce the effect which Louis had, per- 
haps, anticipated. The crowd did not now break 
out into shouts of joy. They cried, and roared, 
and howled : “ The queen alone ! No children ! 
We want no one but the queen ! Away with 
the children ! ” 

It was all in vain that Louis advanced to the 
edge of the platform ; in vain that he raised his 
arms as if commanding silence. The sound of 
his voice was lost in the roar of the mob, who, 
with their clinched fists, their pikes and other 
weapons, their horrid cry, so frightened the dau- 
phin that he could not restrain his tears. 

The royal family drew back and entered the 
apartment again, where they were received by the 
pale, trembling, speechless, weeping courtiers and 
servants. 

But the mob below were not pacified. They 
appeared as though they were determined to give 
laws to the king and queen, and demand obedi- 
ence from them. 

“ The queen ! we will see the queen ! ” was the 
cry again and again. “ The queen shall show 
herself ! ” 

“ Well, be it so ! ” cried Marie Antoinette, with 
cool decision, and, pressing through the courtiers, 
who wanted to restrain her, and even impatiently 
thrusting back the king, who implored her not to 
go, she stepped out upon the balcony. Alone, 
without any one to accompany her, and having 
only the protection which the lion-tamer has when 
he enters the cage of the fierce monsters — the look 
of the eye and the commanding mien ! 

And the lion appeared to be subdued ; his fear- 
ful roar suddenly ceased, and in astonishment 
all these thousands gazed up at the queen, the 
daughter of the Caasars, standing above in proud 
composure, her arms folded upon her breast, and 
looking down with steady eye into the yawning 
sjnd raging abyss. 

The people, overcome by this royal composure, 
broke into loud shouts of applause, and, during the 
continuance of these thousand-voiced bravos, the 
|ueen, with a proud smile upon her lips, stepped 
3ack from the balcony into the chamber. 

8 


The dauphin flew to her with open arms and 
climbed up her knee. “ Mamma queen, my dear 
mamma queen,” cried he, “ stay with me, don’t go 
out again to these dreadful men, I am afraid of 
them — oh, I am afraid ! ” 

Marie Antoinette took the little boy in her arms, 
and with her cold, pale lips pressed a kiss upon 
his forehead. For one instant it seemed as if she 
felt herself overcome by the fearful scene through 
which she had just passed — as if the tears which 
were confined in her heart would force themselves 
into her eyes. But Marie Antoinette overcame 
this weakness of the woman, for she felt that at 
this hour she could only be a queen. 

With the dauphin in her arms, and pressing him 
closely to her heart, she advanced to the king, 
who, in order not to let his wife see the tears which 
flooded his face, had withdrawn to the adjoining 
apartment and was leaning against the door. 

“ Sire,” said Marie Antoinette, entering the 
room, and presenting the dauphin to him, “ sire, 
I conjure you that, in this fearful hour, you will 
make one promise to me.” 

“ What is it' Marie ? ” asked the king, “ what 
do you desire ? ” 

“ Sire, by all that is dear to you and me,” con- 
tinued the queen, “ by the welfare and safety of 
France, by your own and by the safety of this 
dear child, your successor, I conjure you to prom- 
ise me that, if we ever must witness such a scene 
of horror again, and if you have the means to es- 
cape it, you will not let the opportunity pass. ” * 

The king, deeply moved by the noble and 
glowing face of the queen, by the tones of her 
voice, and by her whole expression, turned away. 
He wanted to speak, but could not ; tears choked 
his utterance ; and, as if he were ashamed of his 
weakness, he pushed the queen and the dauphin 
back from him, hastened through the room, and 
disappeared through the door on the opposite side. 

Marie Antoinette looked with a long, sad face 
after him, and then returned to the balcony-room. 
A shudder passed through her soul, and a dark, 
dreadful presentiment made her heart for an in- 

* The very words of the queen. — See Beauchesne, 
“ Louis XVI., sa Vie,*’ etc., p. 145. 


114 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Btant stop beating. She remembered that this 
chamber in which she had that day suffered such 
immeasurable pain — that this chamber, which now 
echoed the cries of a mob that had this day for the 
first time prescribed laws to a queen, had been the 
dying-chamber of Louis XIV.* A dreadful 
presentiment told her that this day the room had 
become the dying-chamber of royalty. Like a 
pale, bloody corpse, the Future passed before her 
eyes, and, with that lightning speed which accom- 
panies moments of the greatest excitement, all the 
old dark warnings came back to her which she 
had previously encountered. She thought of 
the picture of the slaughter of the babes at 
Bethlehem, which decorated the walls of the room 
in which the dauphin passed his first night on 
French soil ; then of that dreadful prophecy which 
Count de Cagliostro had made to her on her 
journey to Paris, and of the scaffold which he 
showed her. She thought of the hurricane which 
had made the earth shake and turn up trees by 
their roots, on the first night which the dauphin 
had passed in Versailles. She thought too of the 
dreadful misfortune which on the next day hap- 
pened to hundreds of men at the fireworks in 
Paris, and cost them their lives. She recalled 
the moment at the coronation when the king 
caught up the crown' which the papal nuncio was 
just on the point of placing on his head, and 
said at the same time, “ It pricks me.” f And 
now it seemed to her to be a new, dreadful rea- 
son for alarm, that the scene of horror, which 
she had just passed through, should take place in 
the dying-chamber of that king to whom France 
owed :her glory and her greatness. 

“ We are lost, lost ! ” she whispered to herself. 

Nothing can save us. There is the scaffold ! ” 

With a silent gesture, and a gentle inclination 
of her head, the queen took her leave of all pres- 
ent, and returned to her own apartments, which 
were now guarded by Lafayette’s soldiers, and 
which now conveyed no hint of the scene of hor- 
ror which had transpired there a few hours before. 

♦ Historical. — See Goncourt, “ Marie Antoinette,'^’ 
p. 195. 

t HistoricaL 


Some hours later two cannon were discharged 
upon the great square before the palace. They 
announced to the city of Versailles that the king, 
the queen, and their children, bad just left the 
proud palace — were then leaving the solitary resi- 
dence at Versailles — ^never to return ! 

From the lofty tower of the church of St. Louis, 
in which recently the opening of the States- 
General had been celebrated, the bell was just 
then striking the first hour after mid-day, when 
the carriage drove out of the great gate through 
which the royal family must pass on its way to 
Paris. A row of other carriages formed the escort 
of the royal equipage. They were intended for 
the members of the States-General. For as soon 
as the journey of the king to Paris was announced, 
the National Assembly decreed that it regarded 
itself as inseparably connected with the person of. 
the king, and that it would follow him to Paris. 
A deputation had instantly repaired to the palace, 
to communicate this decree to the king, and had 
been received by Louis with cordial expressions 
of thanks. 

Marie Antoinette, however, had received the 
tidings of these resolves of the National Assem- 
bly with a suspicious smile, and an angry flash 
darted into her eyes. 

“ And so, the gentlemen of the Third Estate have 
gained their point !” cried she, in wrath. “They 
alone have produced this revolt, in order that the 
National Assembly may have a pretext for going 
to Paris. Now, they have reached their goal ! 
Yet do not tell me that the revolution is ended 
here. On the contrary, the hydra will now put 
forth all its heads, and will tear us in pieces. But, 
very well ! I would rather be torn to pieces by 
them than bend before them ! ” 

And, with a lofty air and calm bearing, Marie 
Antoinette entered the great coach in which tne 
royal family was to make the journey to Paris. 
Near her sat the king, between them the dauphin. 
Opposite to them, on the broad, front seat, were 
their daughter Therese, the Princess Elizabeth, 
and Madame de Tourzel, governess of the royal 
children. 

Behind them, in a procession, whose end could 



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TO PARIS. 


116 


not be seen, followed an artillery train ; then the 
mob, armed with pikes, and other weapons — ^men 
covered with blood and dust, women with dishevel- 
led hair and torn garments, the most of them 
drunken with wine, exhausted by watching during 
the night, shouting and yelling, and singing low 
songs, or mocking the royal family with scorn- 
ful words. Behind these wild masses came two 
hundred garden du corps without weapons, hats, 
and shoulder-straps, every one escorted by two 
grenadiers, and they were followed by some sol- 
diers of the Swiss guard and the Flanders regi- 
ment. In the midst of this train rattled loaded 
cannon, each one accompanied by two soldiers. 
But still more fearful than the retinue of the royal 
equipage were the heralds who preceded it — her- 
alds consisting of the most daring and defiant of 
these men and women, impatiently longing for 
the moment when they could announce to the 
city of Paris that the revolution in Versailles had 
humiliated the king, and given the people victory. 
They carried with them the bloody tokens of this 
victory, the heads of Yaricourt and Deshuttes, the 
faithful Swiss guards, who had died in the service 
of their king. They had hoisted both these heads 
upon pikes, which two men of the mob carried 
before the procession. Between them strode, 
with proud, triumphant mien, a gigantic figure, 
with long, black beard, with naked blood-flecked 
arms, with flashing eyes, his face and hands wet 
with the blood with which he had imbued him- 
self, and in his right hand a slaughter-knife which 
still dripped blood. This was Jourdan, who, from 
his cutting off the heads of both the Swiss guards, 
had won the name of the executioner — a name 
which he understood how to keep during the 
whole revolution.* 

Like storm-birds, desirous to be the first to an- 
nounce to Paris the triumph of the populace, and 
impatient of the slow progress of the royal train, 
these heralds of victory, bearing their bloody 
banner, hastened on in advance of the procession 
to Paris. In Sevres they made a halt — not to 

♦ Jourdan, the executioner, had, until that time, been 
a model in the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculp- 
ture. 


rest, or wait for the oncoming train — but to have 
the hair of the two heads dressed by friseurs^ 
in order, as Jourdan announced with fiendish 
laughter to the yelling mob, that they might 
make their entrance into the city as fine gentlemen. 

While before them and behind them these 
awful cries, loud singing and laughing resounded, 
within the carriage that conveyed the royal fam- 
ily there was unbroken silence. The king sat 
leaning back in the corner, with his eyes closed, 
in order not to see the horrid forms which from 
time to time approached the window of the car- 
riage, to stare in with curious looks, or with 
mocking laughter and equivoques, to heap misery 
on the unfortunate family. 

The queen, however, sat erect, with proud, dig- 
nified bearing, courageously looking the horrors 
of the day in the face, and not a quiver of the 
eyelids, nor a sigh, betraying the pain that tor- 
tured her soul. 

“ No, better die than grant to this triumphing 
rabble the pleasure of seeing what I suffer ! Bet- 
ter sink with exhaustion than complain.” 

Not a murmur, not a sigh, came from her lips ; 
and yet, when the dauphin, after four hours of 
this sad journey, turned with a supplicatory ex- 
pression to his mother, and said to her with his 
sweet voice, “ Mamma queen, I am hungry,” 
the proud expression withdrew from the features 
of the queen, and two great tears slowly ran down 
over her cheeks. 

At last, after a ride of eight hours, the fright- 
ful train reached Paris. Not a window in all the 
streets through which the royal procession went 
was empty. In amazement and terror the people 
of the middle class gazed at this hitherto unseen 
spectacle — the King and the Queen of France 
brought in triumph to the capital by the lowest 
people in the city ! A dumb fear took possession 
of those who hitherto had tried to ignore the 
revolution, and supposed that every thing would 
subside again into the old, wonted forms. Now, 
no one could entertain this hope longer ; now, the 
most timid must confess that a revolution had 
indeed come, and that people must accustom 
themselves to look at it eye to eye. 


116 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Slowly the train moved forward — slowly down 
the quay which extends along by the garden of 
the Tuileries. The loungers who were in the 
garden hurried to the fence, which then bordered 
the park on the side of the quay, in order to 
watch this frightful procession from this point ; 
to see an unbridled populace dash in pieces the 
prescriptive royalty of ages. 

Scorn and the love of destruction were written 
on most of the faces of these observers, but many 
were pale, and many quivered with anger and 
grief. In the front ranks of the spectators stood 
two young men, one of them in simple civilian’s 
costume, the other in the uniform of a sub-lieu- 
tenant. The face of the young officer was pale, 
but it lightened up with rare energy ; and with 
his noble, antique profile, and flaming eyes, it en- 
chanted every look, and fixed the attention of 
every one who observed him. 

As the howling, roaring mob passed him, the 
youijg officer turned to his companion with an 
expression of fiery indignation. “ 0 God,” he cried, 
“ how is this possible ? Has the king no cannon 
to destroy this canaille * 

“ My friend,” answered the young man, smiling, 
“ remember the words of our great poet Corneille : 

‘ The people give the king his purple and take 
it back when they please. The beggar, king only 
by the people’s^ grace, simply gives back his pur- 
ple to the people.’ ” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the young lieutenant, smiling, 
“ what once has been received should be firmly 
held. I, at least, if I had once received the 
purple by the people’s grace, would not give it 
back. But come, let us go on, it angers me to 
see this canaille^ upon which you bestow the fine 
name of ‘ the people.” He hastily grasped the arm 
of his friend, and turned to a more solitary part of 
the garden of the Tuileries. 

This young sub-lieutenant, who saw with such 
indignation this revolutionary procession pass him, 
and whom destiny had appointed one day to 
bring this revolution to an end — ^this young lieu- 
tenant’s name was Napoleon Bonaparte, 

The young man who walked at his side, and 


whom, too, destiny had appointed to work a revo- 
lution, although only in the theatrical world, to 
recreate the drama — this young man’s name 
was Talma. 


CHAPTER XY. 

MAMMA QUEEN. 

“ Every thing passes over, every thing has an 
end ; one must only have courage and think of 
that,” said Marie Antoinette, with a gentle smile, 
as on the morning after her arrival in Paris, she 
had risen from her bed and drunk her chocolate 
in the improvised sitting-room. “Here we are 
installed in the Tuileries, and have slept, while 
we yesterday were thinking we were lost, and that 
only death could give us rest and peace again.” 

“ It was a fearful day,” said Madame de Cam- 
pan, with a sigh, “but your majesty went through 
it like a heroine.” 

“ Ah, Campan,” said the queen, sadly, “ I have 
not the ambition to want to be a heroine, and I 
should be very thankful if it were allowed me 
from this time on to be a wife and mother, if it 
is no longer allowed me to be a queen.” 

At this instant the door opened ; the little 
dauphin, followed by his teacher, the Abbe Da- 
vout, ran in and flew with extended arms to Ma- 
rie Antoinette. 

“ Oh, mamma queen ! ” cried he, with winning 
voice, “let us go back again to our beautiful 
palace ; it is dreadful here in this great, dark 
house.” 

“ Hush, my child, hush ! ” said the queen, press- 
ing the boy close to her. “You must not say 
so ; you must accustom yourself to be contented 
everywhere.” 

“ Mamma queen,” whispered the child, tender- 
ly nestling close to his mother, “it is true it is 
dreadful here, but I will always say it so low 
that nobody except you can hear. . But tell me, 
who owns this hateful house ? And why do we 
want to stay here, when we have such a fine 
palace and a beautiful garden in Versailles ? ” 


* His own words.— See Beanchesne, vol., i., p. 85. 


MAMMA QUEEN. 


117 


“Mj son,” answered tne queen with a sigh, 
“ this house belongs to us, and it is a beautiful 
and famous palace. You ought not to say that 
it does not please you, for your renowned great- 
grandfather, the great Louis XIV., lived here, and 
made this palace celebrated all over Europe.” 

“ Yet I wish that we were away from here,” 
whispered the dauphin, casting his large blue 
eyes with a prolonged and timid glance through 
the wide, desolate room, which was decorated 
sparingly with old-fashioned, faded furniture. 

“ I wish so, too,” sighed Marie Antoinette, to 
herself ; but softly as she had spoken the words, 
the sensitive ear of the child had caught them. 

“ You, too, want to go ? ” asked Louis Charles, 
in amazement. “ Are you not queen now, and 
can you not do what you want to ? ” 

The queen, pierced to the very heart by the 
innocent question of the child, burst into tears. 

“My prince,” said the Abbe Davout, turning 
to the dauphin, “you see that you trouble the 
queen, and her majesty needs rest. Come, we 
will take a walk.” 

But Marie Antoinette put both her arms around 
the child and pressed its head with its light locks 
to her breast. 

“No,” she said, “no, he does not trouble me. 
Let me weep. Tears do me good One is only 
unfortunate when she can no longer weep ; when — 
but what is that ? ” she eagerly asked, rising 
from her easy-chair. “What does that noise 
mean ? ” 

And in very fact in the street there were loud 
shouting and crying, and intermingled curses and 
threats. 

“Mamma,” cried the dauphin, nestling close 
up to the queen, “ is to-day going to be just like 
yesterday ? ” * 

The door was hastily opened, and the king en- 
tered. 

“ Sire,” asked Marie, eagerly advancing toward 
him, “ are they going to renew the dreadful scenes 
of yesterday ? ” 

“ On the contrary, Marie, they are going to bring 

♦ Tile very words of the dauphin. — See Beauchesne, 
voL i. 


to their reckoning those who occasioned the scenes 
of yesterday,” answered the king. “ A deputa- 
tion from the Court of Chatelet have come to the 
Tuileries, and desire of me an authorization to 
bring to trial those who are guilty, and of you 
any information which you can give about what 
has taken place. The mob have accompanied the 
deputation hither, and hence arise these cries. I 
am come to ask you, Marie, to receive the depu- 
tation of Chatelet.” 

“ As if there were any choice left us to refuse 
to see them,” answered Marie Antoinette, sighing. 
“ The populace who are howling and crying with- 
out are now the master of the men who come to us 
with a sneer, and ask us whether we will grant 
them an audience. We must submit ! ” 

The king did not answer, but shrugged his 
shoulders, and opened the door of the antecham- 
ber. “ Let them enter,” he said to the chamber- 
lains there. 

The two folding doors were now thrown open, 
and the loud voice of an officer announced, “ The 
honorable judges of Chatelet ! ” 

Slowly, with respectful mien and bowed head, 
the gentlemen, arrayed in their long black robes, 
entered the room, and remained humbly standing 
near the door. 

Marie Antoinette had advanced a few steps. 
Not a trace of grief and disquiet was longer to be 
seen in her face. Her figure was erect, her glance 
was proud and full of fire, and the expression of 
her countenance noble and majestic. She was 
still the queen, though not surrounded by the 
solemn pomp which attended the public audiences 
at Versailles. She did not stand on the purple- 
carpeted step of the throne, no gold-embroidered 
canopy arched over her, no crowd of brilliant 
courtiers surrounded her, only her husband stood 
near her; her son clung to her side, and his 
teacher, the Abbe Davout, timidly withdrew 
into the background. These formed all her suite. 
But Marie Antoinette did not need external pomp 
to be a queen ; she was so in her bearing, in every 
look, in every gesture. With commanding dig- 
nity she allowed the deputation to approach her, 
and to speak with her. She listened with calm 


118 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


attention to the words of the speaker, who, in the 
name of the court, gave utterance to the deep 
horror with which the treasonable actions of the 
day before had filled him. He then humbly 
begged the queen to give such names of the riot- 
ers as might be known to her, that they might be 
arrested, but Marie Antoinette interrupted him in 
his address. 

“ No, sir,” she cried, “ no, never will I be an 
informer against the subjects of the king.”* 

The speaker bowed respectfully. “ Then let 
me at least beg of you, in the name of the High- 
Court of the Chatelet, to give us your order to 
bring the guilty parties to trial, for without such 
a charge we cannot prosecute the criminals who 
have been engaged in these acts.” 

“ Nor do I wish you to bring any one to trial,” 
cried the queen, with dignity. “ I have seen all, 
known all, and forgotten all ! Go, gentlemen, go ! 
My heart knows no vengeance ; it has forgiven all 
those who have wounded me. Go ! ” f 

With a commanding gesture of her hand, and 
a gentle nod of her head, she dismissed the depu- 
tation, who silently withdrew. 

“ Marie,” said the king, grasping the hand of 
his wife with unwonted eagerness, and pressing 
it tenderly to his lips, “ Marie, I thank you in the 
name of all my subjects. You have acted this 
hour not only as a queen,^ but as the mother of 
my people.” 

“ Ah, sir,” replied the queen, with a sad smile, 
“only that the children will not believe in the 
love of their mother — only that your subjects do 
not consider me their mother, but their en- 
emy.” 

“ They have been misguided,” said the king. 
“Evil-minded men have deceived them, but I 
hope we shall succeed in bringing the people 
back from their error.” 

“ Sire,” sighed Marie Antoinette, “ I hope for 
nothing more ; but,” added she, with still firmer 
voice, “I also fear nothing more. The worst 
may break over me — it shall find me armed ! ” 

* Marie Antoinette’s own words. — See Goncourt, 
Marie Antoinette,” pp. 196, 197. 
t Ibid. 


The side-door now opened, and Madame de 
Campan entered. 

“Your majesty,” said she, bowing low, “a 
great number of ladies from the Faubourg St. 
Germain are in the small reception-room. They 
wish to testify their devotion to your majesty.” 

“ I will receive them at once,” cried Marie An- 
toinette, with an almost joyful tone. “Ah, only 
see, husband, the consolations which misfortune 
brings. These ladies of the Faubourg St. Ger- 
main formerly cut me ; they could not forget that 
I was an Austrian. To-day they feel that I am 
the Queen of France, and that I belong to them. 
Pardon me, sire, for leaving you.” 

She hastened away with a rapid step. The 
king looked after her with an expression of pain. 
“ Poor queen,” he whispered to himself, “ how 
much she is misjudged, how wrongly she is calum- 
niated ! And I cannot change it, and must let it 
be.” 

He sank with a deep sigh, which seemed much 
like a groan, into an arm-chair, and was lost in 
painful recollections. A gentle touch on his hand, 
which rested on the side-arm of the chair, restored 
him to consciousness. Before him stood the dau- 
phin, and looked gravely and thoughtfully out of 
his large blue eyes up into his father’s face. 

“Ah, is it you, my little Louis Charles?” said 
the king, nodding to him. “ What do you want 
of me, my child ? ” 

“Papa king,” answered the boy, timidly, “I 
should like to ask you something — something 
really serious ! ” 

“ Something really serious ! ” replied the king. 
“ Well, what is it ? Let me hear ! ” 

“ Sire, replied the dauphin, with a weighty and 
thoughtful air, “ sire, Madame de Tourzel has al- 
ways told me that I must love the people of 
France very much, and treat every one very 
friendly, because the people of France love my 
papa and my mamma so much, and I ought to be 
very grateful for it. How comes it then, sire, that 
the French people are now so bad to you, and 
that they do not love mamma any longer ? What 
have you both done to make the people so angry, 
because I have been told that the people are sub* 


MAMMA QUEEN. 


119 


ject to your majesty, and that they owe you obe- 
dience and respect ? But they were not obedient 
yesterday, and not at all respectful, your subjects, 
were they ? How is this, papa ? ” 

The king drew the little prince to his knee, and 
put his arm around the slight form of the boy. 
“ I will explain it to you, my son,” he said, “ and 
. listen carefully to what I say to you.” 

“ I will, sire,” answered the boy eagerly. “ I 
at least am an obedient subject of my king, for 
the Abbe Davout has told me that I am nothing 
but a subject of your majesty, and that, as a son 
and a subject, I must give a good example to the 
French people, how to love and obey the king. 
And I love you very much, papa, and I am just 
as obedient as I can be. But it seems as though 
my good example had made no difference with the 
other subjects. How comes that about, papa 
king ? ” 

“ My son,” answered Louis, “ that comes be- 
cause there are bad men who have told the people 
that I do not love them. We have had to l^ave 
great wars, and wars cost a deal of money. And 
so I asked money of my people — just as my an- 
cestors always did.” 

“ But, papa,” cried the dauphin, “ why did you 
do that ? Why did you not take my purse, and pay 
out of that ? You know that I receive every day 
my purse all filled with new francs, and — but 
then, ” he interrupted himself, “ there would be 
nothing left for the poor children, to whom I al- 
ways give money on my walks. And, oh ! there 
are so many poor children, so very many, that 
my purse is empty every day, when I return from 
my walk, and yet I give to each child only one 
poor franc-piece. So your people have money, 
more money than you yourself? ” 

“My child, kings receive all that they have 
from their people, but they give it all back to the 
people again ; the king is the one appointed by 
God to govern his people, and the people owe re- 
spect and obedience to the king, and have to pay 
taxes to him. And so, if he needs money, he is 
justified in asking his subjects for it, and so does 
what is called ‘ laying taxes ’ upon them. Do you 
understand me ? ” 


“ Oh ! yes, papa,” cried the child, who had 
listened with open eyes and breathless attention, 
“ I understand all very well. But I don’t like it. 
It seems to me that if a man is king, every thing 
belongs to him, and that the king ought to have 
all the money so as to give it to the people. They 
ought to ask Am, and not he them / ” 

“ In former and more happy times it was so,” 
said the king, with a sigh. “But many kings have 
misused their power and authority, and now the 
king cannot pay out money unless the people un- 
derstand all about it and consent ! ” 

“ Have you given out money, papa, without ask- 
ing the people’s leave ? Was that the reason they 
came to Versailles yesterday, and were so wicked, 
ah ! so very wicked ? For those bad men — they 
were the people, were they not ? ” 

“ No, my son,” answered Louis, “ I hope they 
were not the people. The people cannot come to 
me in such great masses ; they must have their 
representatives. The representatives of the 
people I have myself called to me ; they are the 
States-General, which I assembled at Versailles. I 
asked of them money for the outlays which I had 
to make for the people, but they asked things of 
me that I could not grant, either for my own 
sake, or for yours, my son, who are some day to 
be my successor. Then wicked men came and stir- 
red up the people, and told them that I did 
not love the people any more, and that I want- 
ed to trouble my subjects, And the poor 
people have believed what these evil advisers 
and slanderers have told them, and have been 
led astray into making the riot against me. 
But every thing will come out right again, and 
my subjects will see that I love them, and am 
ready to share every thing with them. That is 
the reason I have come to Paris, to live here 
among my people. It is certainly not so pleasant 
as in Versailles; our rooms are not so fine and 
convenient, and we do not have the beautiful gar- 
dens here that we had there. But we must learn 
to be contented here, and put up with what we 
have. We must remember that there is no one 
in Paris better than we, and that the Parisians 
must acknowledge that the king loves them, for 


120 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


he has given up his beautiful Yersaille^, in order 
to live with them, and share all their need, and all 
the disagreeable things which they have to bear.” 

“Papa king, I have understood every thing, 
and I am very much ashamed that I have com- 
plained before. I promise you, sire,” he contin- 
ued, with earnest mien, and laying his hand upon 
his breast, “ yes, sire, I promise you, that I will 
take pains to give the people a good example, and 
to be really good and kind. I will never complain 
again that we are living in Paris, and I will take 
pains to be happy and contented here.” 

And the dauphin kept his word. He took pains 
to be contented ; he said not another word about 
the old pleasant life at Yersailles, but appeared to 
have forgotte;! all about ever having been any- 
where but in this great, desolate palace, with its 
halls filled with faded tapestry; stately, solemn 
furniture, their golden adornments having grown 
dim, and their upholstery hard ; he seemed never 
to have known any garden but this, only one little 
corner of which was set apart for the royal fam- 
ily, and through the iron gate of which threatening 
words were often heafd, and spiteful faces seen. 

One day, when the dauphin heard such words, 
and saw such faces beyond the paling, he shrank 
back, and ran to his mother, earnestly imploring 
her with trembling voice to leave the garden, and 
go into the palace. But Marie Antoinette led 
him farther into the garden, instead of complying 
with his wish. In the little pavilion which stood 
at the corner of the enclosure on the side of the 
quay, she sat down, and lifting her boy up in her 
arms, set him before her on the marble table, 
wiped away his tears with her handkerchief, and 
tenderly implored him not to weep or feel badly 
any more. 

If you weep, my child,” she said, sadly, as 
the dauphin could not control his tears, “ if you 
weep, I shall have no courage left, and it will be 
as dark and dreary to me as if the sun had gone 
down. If you weep, I should want to weep with 
you ; and you see, my son, that it would not be 
becoming for a queen to weep. The wicked 
people, who want to hurt our feelings, they find 
pleasure in it, and therefore we must be alto^ 


gether too proud to let them see what we suffer. 
I have this pride, but when I see you suffer it 
takes away all my strength. You remember our 
ride from Yersailles here, my son ? How the bad 
men w^ho surrounded us, mocked at me and said 
foul things to me ! I was cold and calm, but I 
could not help weeping, my child, when you com- 
plained of being hungry.” 

“ Mamma,” cried the child, with flashing eyes, 
“ I will never complain again, and the bad men 
shall never have the pleasure of seeing me weep.” 

“ But good men, my child, you must always 
treat kindly, and behave very prettily to them.” 

“ I will do so,” answered the dauphin, thought 
fully. “ But, mamma queen, tell me who the 
good men are ! ” 

“ You must believe, Louis, that all men are 
good, and therefore you must be kind to all. If 
then they despise your goodness or friendliness, 
and cast it from them, it will not be your fault, 
and our heavenly Father and your parents will 
be pleased with you.” 

“ But, mamma,” cried the prince, and a shadow 
passed over his pure, beautiful child’s face, “ but, 
mamma, I cannot see that all men are good. 
When they were abusing us, and cursing us, and 
speaking bad words at us in the carriage, and 
were talking so angrily at you, dear mamma, the 
men were not good, and I never could treat them 
friendly if they should come again.” 

“ They will not come again, Louis. No, we 
will hope that the bad men will not come again, 
and that those who come to see us here are good 
men ; so be very kind and polite to everybody, 
that all may love you, and eee that their future 
king is good and polite, even while a child.” 

“ Good ? ” cried the boy, spiritedly. “ I will 
be good and polite to everybody, that you may 
be satisfied with me. Yes, just for that will I 
be so.” 

Marie Antoinette pressed the pretty boy to her- 
self, and kissed his lips. Just then an officer en- 
tered and announced General Lafayette and Bailly, 
the mayor of Paris. 

“Mamma,” whispered the prince, as the two 
gentlemen entered — “ mamma, that is the genera] 


MAMMA QUEEN. 


121 


that was at Yersailles, then. I can never be kind 
to him, for he belongs to the bad men.” 

“Hush! my child — hush!” whispered the 
queen. “ For God’s sake, do not let anybody 
hear that. No, no. General Lafayette does not 
belong to our enemies, he means well toward us. 
Treat him kindly, very kindly, my child.” 

And Marie Antoinette took her son by the 
hand, and, with a smile upon her lips, went to 
meet the two gentlemen, in order to inquire the 
reason for their appearing at this unwonted time 
and place. 

“ Madame,” said General Lafayette, “ I have 
come to ask your majesty whether you will not 
have the goodness to let me know the hours in 
which you may wish to visit the park and the 
garden, that I may make my arrangements ac- 
cordingly.” 

“ That means, general,” cried the queen, “ that 
it is not to depend upon my free-will when and 
at what times lam to walk in the park, but it 
will be allowed me only at certain hours, just as 
prisoners are allowed to take their walks at cer- 
tain hours.” 

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said the gen- 
eral, with great respect; “ your majesty will gra- 
ciously believe, that to me, the peace and security 
of your exalted person is sacred above every 
thing, and that I regard it as my first duty to 
protect you against every insult, and every thing 
that may be disagreeable.” 

“ And so it has come to that,” cried Marie An- 
toinette, angrily. “ The Queen of France must 
be protected against insults and disagreeable 
things. She is not to go out when she will into 
her park, because she has to fear that, if General 
Lafayette has not previously made his special 
preparations, the people will insult her. But if 
this is so, sir, why do you not close the gates of 
the park ? It is royal property, and it probably 
vdll be allowed to the king to defend his private 
property from the brutality of the rabble. I will 
myself, general, see to it that I be protected from 
insults, and that, at any time when it pleases me, 
I may go into the park and the inner gardens. I 
will ask his majesty the king to allow the gates 


of the park and the promenade on the quay to be • 
closed. That will close every thing, and we shall 
at least gain the freedom thereby of being able to 
take walks at any time, without first sending in- 
formation to General Lafayette.” 

“ Madame, I expected that you would answer 
me so,” said Lafayette, sadly, “ and I have there- 
fore brought M. de Bailly with me, that he might 
join me in supplicating your majesty to gracious- 
ly abstain from taking measures of violence, and 
not to further stir up the feelings of the people, al- 
ready so exasperated.” 

“ And so you are of this opinion, sir ? ” asked 
Marie Antoinette, turning to M. Bailly. “ You, 
too, regard it as a compulsory measure, for the 
king to claim his own right, and to keep out of 
his property those who insult him.” 

“ Your majesty, the king is, unfortunately, not 
free to make use of this right, as you call it.” 

“ You will not say, sir, that if it pleases the 
king not to allow evil-disposed persons to enter 
the park of the Tuileries, he has not the right to 
close the gates ? ” 

“ Madame, I must indeed take the privilege of 
saying so,” answered M. de Bailly, with a gentle 
obeisance. “ King Henry lY. gave the Parisians 
the perpetual privilege of having the park of the 
Tuileries open to them always, and free to be 
used in their walks. The palace of the Tuileries 
was, as your majesty knows, originally built by 
Queen Catherine de Medicis, after the death of her 
husband, for the home of her widowhood. All 
sorts of stories were then current about the un- 
canny things which were said to occur in the 
park of the Tuileries. They told about laborato- 
ries in which Queen Catherine prepared her poi- 
sons ; of a pavilion in which there was a martyr’s 
chamber ; of subterranean cells for those who had 
been buried alive ; and all these dreadful stories 
made such an impression that no one dared ap- 
proach this place of horrors after sunset. But 
when Queen Catherine had left Paris, and King 
Henry lY. resided in the Louvre, he had this 
dreaded Tuileries garden, with all its horrors, 
opened to the Parisians, and out of the queen’s 
garden he made one for the people, in order that 


122 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


the curse which rested upon it might be changed 
into a blessing.” 

“And now you suppose, Mr. Mayor, that it 
would change the blessing into a curse again, if 
we should want to close the gates that Henry 
lY. opened ? ” 

“ I do fear it, madame, and therefore venture to 
ask that the right to enter the Tuileries gardens 
may not be taken from the people, nor their en- 
joyment interfered with.” 

“ Not the people’s enjoyment, only ours, is to 
be interfered with,” cried Marie Antoinette, bit- 
terly. “They are doubtless right who call the 
people now the real king of France, but they for- 
get that this* new king has usurped the throne 
only by treachery, rebellion, and murder, and that 
the wrath of God and the justice of man will one 
day hurl him down into the dust at our feet. In 
this day I hope, and until then I will bear in pa- 
tience and with unshaken courage what fate may 
lay upon me. The wickedness and brutality of 
men shall at least not intimidate me, and fear 
shall not humiliate me to the state of a prisoner 
who takes her walks under the protection of M. 
de Lafayette, the general of the people, at appoint- 
ed hours.” 

“ Your majesty,” cried Lafayette, turning pale. 

“ What is your pleasure ? ” interrupted the 
queen, with a proud movement of her head. “ You 
were a gentleman, and knew the customs and 
mode of our court before you went to America. 
Has the want of manners there so disturbed your 
memory that you do not know that it is not per- 
mitted to speak in the presence of the queen with- 
out being asked or permitted by her to do so ? ” 

“ General,” cried the dauphin, at this instant, 
with loud, eager voice, running forward to Lafay- 
ette, and extending to him his little hand — “ gen- 
eral, I should like to salute you. Mamma told me 
that I must be kind to all those who are good to 
us and love us, and just as you were coming in 
with this gentleman, mamma told me that Gen- 
eral Lafayette does not belong to our enemies, 
but means well to us. Let me, therefore, greet 
you kindly and give you my hand.” And while 
saying so and smiling kindly at the general, he 


raised his great blue eyes to the face of his 
mother an instant with a supphcatory expression. 

Lafayette took th^ extended hand of tlje prince, 
and a flush of deep emotion passed over, his face 
that was just before kindling with anger. As if 
touched with reverence and astonishment, he bent 
his knee before this child, whose countenance 
beamed with innocence, love, and goodness, and 
pressed to his lips the little hand that rested in his 
own. 

“ My prince,” said he, deeply moved, “ you 
have just spoken to me with the tongue of an 
angel, and I swear to you, and to your exalted 
royal mother, that I will never forget this mo- 
ment ; that I will remember it so long as I live. 
The kiss which I have impressed upon the hand 
of my future king is nt once the seal of the sol- 
emn vow, and the oath of unchangeable fidel- 
ity and devotion which I consecrate to my king 
and to the whole royal family, and in which nothing 
shall make me waver ; nothing, not even the an- 
ger and the want of favor of my exalted queen. 
Dauphin of France, you have to-day gained a sol- 
dier for your throne who is prepared to shed his 
last drop of blood for you and your house, and 
on whose fidelity and devotion you may contin- 
ually count.” 

With tears in his eyes, his brave, noble face 
quivering with emotion, Lafayette looked at the 
child that with cheeks all aglow and with a pleas- 
ant smile was gazing with great, thoughtful child’s 
eyes up to the strong man, who placed himself so 
humbly and devotedly at his feet. Behind him 
stood M. de Bailly, with bended head and folded 
hands, listening with solemn thoughtfulness to the 
words of the general, upon whose strong shoulders 
the fate of the monarchy rested, and who, at this 
time, was the mightiest and most conspicuous 
man in France, because the National Guard of 
Paris was still obedient to him, and followed his 
commands. 

Close by the dauphin stood the queen, in her 
old, proud attitude, but upon her face a striking 
change had taken place. The expression of an- 
ger and suspicion which it had before displayed 
had now completely disappeared. The cloud 


MAMMA QUEEN. 


123 


which had gathered upon her lofty forehead was 
dissipated, and her face shone out bright and 
clear. The large, grayish-blue eyes, which before 
had shot angry darts, now glowed with mild fire, 
and around her lips played an instant that fair, 
pleasant smile which, in her happier days, had 
often moved the favorites of the queen to verses 
of praise, and which her enemies had so often 
made a reproach to her. 

When the general ceased there was silence — 
that eloquent, solemn silence which accompanies 
those moments in which the Genius of History 
hovers over the heads of men, and, touching them 
with its pinions, ties their tongues and opens the 
eyes of the spirit, so that they can look into the 
future, and, with presaging horror, read all the se- 
crets of coming time as by a fiash of lightning. 

Such a critical moment in history was that in 
which Lafayette, at the feet of the dauphin, swore 
eternal fidelity to the monarchy of France in the 
presence of the unfortunate mayor of Paris, who 
was soon to seal his loyalty with his own blood, 
and in presence of the queen, whose lofty char- 
acter was soon to make her a martyr. 

The moment passed by, and Marie Antoinette 
bowed to Lafayette with her gracious smile. 

“ Rise, general,” she said, in gentle tones, 
“ God has heard your oath, and I accept it in the 
name of the French monarchy, my husband, my 
son, and myself. I shall always continue mindful 
of it, and I hope that you will also. And I beg 
you, too,” she continued, in a low voice, and with 
a deep flush upon her face, “ I beg you to forgive 
me if I have hitherto cast unworthy reproaches 
upon you. I have lived through so many sad and 
dreadful days, that it will be set down to my fa- 
vor if my nerves are agitated and easily excited. 
I shall probably learn to accept evil days with 
calmness, and to bow my head patiently beneath 
the yoke which my enemies are laying upon me ! 
But still I feel the injury, and the proud habits 
of my birth and life war against it. But only 
wait, and I shall become accustomed to it.” 

While saying this she stooped down to the 
dauphin and kissed his golden hair. A tear fell 
from her eyes upon the forehead of her son, and 


glittered there hke a star fallen from heaven. 
Marie Antoinette did not see it, did not know 
that the tear which she was trying to conceal was 
now glistening on the brow of her son — on that 
brow which was never to wear any other diadem 
than the one that the tears of love placed on his 
innocent head. 

“ Heaven defend your majesty ever being com- 
pelled to become accustomed to insult ! ” cried La- 
fayette, deeply moved. “ I hope we have seen our 
worst days, and that after the tempest there will 
be sunshine and bright weather again. The peo- 
ple will look back with shame and regret upon the 
wild and stormy scenes to which they have allowed 
themselves to be drawn by unprincipled agitators ; 
they will bow in love and obedience before the royal 
couple who, with so much confidence and devo- 
tion, leave their beautiful, retired home at Ver- 
sailles, in order to comply with the wish of the 
people and come to Paris. Will your majesty 
have the goodness to ask the mayor of Paris, and 
he will tell you, madame, how deeply moved all 
the good citizens of Paris are at the truly noble 
spirit which prompted you to refuse to initiate an 
investigation respecting the night of horrors at 
Versailles, and to bring the ringleaders to justice.” 

“ Is it true, M. de Bailly ? ” asked the queen, 
eagerly. “ Was my decision approved ? Have I 
friends still among the people of Paris ? ” 

“ Your majesty,” answered M. de Bailly, bow- 
ing low, “ all good citizens of Paris have seen 
with deep emotion the noble resolve of your ma- 
jesty, and in all noble and true hearts the royal 
words are recorded imperishably, which your ma- 
jesty spoke to the judges of the Chatelet, ‘ I have 
heard all, seen all, and forgotten all ! ’ With tears 
of deep feeling, with a hallowed joy, they are re- 
peated through all Paris ; they have become the 
watchword of all the well-inclined and faithful, the 
evangel of love and forgiveness for all women, of 
fidelity and devotion for all men ! It has been seen 
and confessed that the throne of France is the 
possessor not only of goodness and beauty, but of 
forgiveness and gentleness, and that your majesty 
bears rightly the title of the Most Christian 
Queen. These nine words which your majesty 


124 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


has uttered, have become thes acred banner of 
all true souls, and they will cause the golden days 
to come back, as they once dawned upon Paris 
when the Dauphin of France made his entry into 
the capital, and it could be said with truth to the 
future queen, Marie Antoinette, ‘ Here are a hun- 
dred thousand lovers of your person.’ ” 

The queen was no longer able to master her 
deep emotion. She who had had the courage to 
display a proud and defiant mien to her enemies 
and assailants, could not conceal the intensity of 
her feeling when hearing words of such devotion, 
and uttered a cry, then choked with emotion, and 
at length burst into a torrent of tears. Equally 
astonished and ashamed, she covered her face with 
her hands, but the tears gushed out between her 
white tapering fingers, and would not be withheld. 
They had been so long repressed behind those 
proud eyelids, that now, despite the queen’s will, 
they forced their way with double power and in- 
tensity. 

But only for a moment did the proud-spirited 
queen allow herself to be overcome by the gentle 
and deeply-moved woman ; she quickly collected 
herself and raised her head. 

“ I thank you, 'feir, I thank you,” she said, 
breathing more freely, “ you have done me good, 
and these tears, though not the first which grief 
and anger have extorted, are the first for a long 
time which have sprung from what is almost joy. 
Who knows whether I shall ever be able to shed 
such tears again ! And who knows,” she contin- 
ued, with a deep sigh, “ whether I do not owe 
these tears more to your wish to do me good, than 
to true and real gains ? I bethink me now — you 
say all good citizens of Paris repeat my words, all 
the well-disposed are satisfied with my decision. 
But, ah ! I fear that the number of these is very 
small, and that the golden days of the past will 
never return ! And is not your appearance here 
to-day a proof of this ? Did you not come here 
because the people insult and calumniate me, 
and beeause you considered it needful to throw 
around me your protection, which is now migh- 
tier than the royal purple and the lilies of the 
throne of France ? ” 


“Madame, time must be granted to the mis- 
guided people to return to the right way,” said 
Lafayette, almost with a supplicating air. “ They 
must be dealt with as we deal with defiant, naugh- 
ty children, which can be brought back to obe- 
dience and submission better by gentle speech 
and apparent concession than by rigidity and se- 
verity. On this account I ventured to ask your 
majesty to intrust me for a little while with the 
care of your sacred person, and, in order that I 
may satisfy my duty, that you would graciously 
appoint the time when your majesty will take your 
walks here in the park and garden, so that I can 
make my arrangements accordingly.” 

“In order to make a fence out of your National 
Guards, protected by which the Queen of France 
may not become visible to the hate of the people, 
and behind which she may be secure against the 
attacks of her enemies ! ” cried Marie Antoinette. 
“ No, sir, I cannot accept this ! It shall at least 
be seen that I am no coward, and that I will not 
hide myself from those who come to attack me ! ” 

“ Your majesty,” said Bailly, “ I conjure you, 
do this out of compassion for us, for all your 
faithful servants who tremble for the peace and 
security of your majesty, and allow M. de Lafay- 
ette to keep the brutality of the people away 
from you, and protect you in your walks.” 

“ Sufficient, gentlemen,” cried Marie Antoinette, 
impatiently. “ You now know my fixed resolve, 
and it is not necessary to discuss it further. I 
will not hide myself from the people, and I will 
confront them under the simple protection of God. 
Defended by Him, and sustained by the convic- 
tion that I have not merited the hate with which 
I am pursued, I will continue to meet the subjects 
of the king fearlessly, with an unveiled head, and 
only God and my fate shall judge between me 
and them ! I thank you, gentlemen, for your zeal 
and your care, and you may be sure that I shall 
never forget it. But now farewell, gentlemen ! 
It is growing cold, and I should like to return to 
the palace.” 

“Will your majesty not have the kindness to 
allow us both to mingle with your train, and ac 
company you to the palace ? ” asked Lafayette. 


MAMMA QUEEX. 


125 


“ I came hither, attended by only two lackeys, 
who are waiting outside the pavilion,” answered 
the queen. “ You know that I have laid aside 
the court etiquette which used to attend the 
queen upon her walks, and w'hich do not allow 
the free enjoyment of nature. My enemies 
charge me with this as an offence, and consider it 
improper that the Queen of France should take a 
walk without a brilliant train of courtiers, and 
like any other human being. But I think that 
the people ought not to be angry at this, and 
they may take it as a sign that I am not so proud 
and unapproachable as I am generally believed 
to be. And so farewell, gentlemen ! ” 

She graciously waved her hand toward the 
door, and, with a gentle inchnation of her head, 
dismissed the two gentlemen, who, with a sad 
bearing, withdrew, and left the pavilion. 

“ Come, my son,” said the queen, “ we will re- 
turn to the palace.” 

“ By the same way that we came, shall we not, 
mamma ? ” asked the dauphin, taking the extend- 
ed hand of the queen, and pressing it to his lips. 

“You will not weep again if the people shout 
and laugh ? ” asked Marie Antoinette. “ You 
will not be afraid any more ? ” 

“ No, I will not be afraid any more. Oh, you 
shall be satisfied with me, mamma queen ! I have 
paid close attention to all that you said to the two 
gentlemen, and I am very glad that you did not 
allow M. de Lafayette to walk behind us. The 
people would then have believed that we are 
afraid, and now they shall see that we are not so 
at all.” 

“Well, come, my child, let us go,” said Marie 
Antoinette, giving her hand to her son, and pre- 
paring to leave the pavilion. 

But on the threshold the dauphin stopped, and 
I looked imploringly up into the face of his mother. 

I “ I should like to ask you something, mamma 
I queen.” 

j “Well, what is it, my little Louis ? What do 
you wish ? ” 

“I should like to have you allow me to go 
alone, else the people would believe that I am 
afraid, and want you to lead me. And I want to 


be like the Chevalier Bayard, about whom the 
Abbe talked with me to-day. I want to be sam 
pcur et sans reproche^ like Bayard.” 

“Very well, chevalier,” said the queen, with a 
smile, “ then walk alone and free by my side.” 

“ No, mamma, if you will allow me, I will walk 
before you. The knights always walk in advance 
of the ladies, so as to ward off any danger 'which 
may be in the way. And I am your knight, mam- 
ma, and I want to be as long as I live. Will you 
allow it, my royal lady ? ” 

“ I allow it ! So go in front, Chevalier Louis 
Charles ! We will take the same way back by 
which we came.” 

The dauphin sprang over the little square in 
front of the pavilion, and down the alley which 
led to the Arcadia Walk along the side of the 
quay. 

Before the little staircase which led up to this 
walk, he stopped and turned his pretty head 
round to the queen, who, followed by the two 
lackeys, was walking slowly and quietly along. 

“Well, Chevalier Bayard,” asked the queen 
with a smile, “ what are you stopping for ? ” 

“ I am only waiting for your majesty,” replied the 
child, gravely. “ Here is where my knightly ser- 
vice commences, for here it is that danger be- 
gins.” 

“ It is true,” said the queen, as she stopped at 
the foot of the steps and listened to the loud 
shouting which now became audible. “ One 
would think that a storm had been sweeping over 
the ocean, there is such a thundering sound. But 
you know, my son, that the storms lie in God’s 
hand, and that He protects those who trust in 
Him. Think of that, my child, and do not be 
afraid ! ” 

“ Oh, I am not afraid ! ” cried the boy, and 
he sprang up the stairs like a gazelle. 

The queen quickened her steps a little, and 
seemed to be giving her whole attention to her 
son, who went before her with such a happy flow 
of spirits, and appeared to hear nothing of what 
was passing around her. And yet, behind the 
fence which ran along the left side of the Arcadia 
Walk all the way to the quay, was a dense 


126 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


I 


of people, head behind head, and all their blazing 
eyes were directed at the queen, and words of 
hate, malediction, and threatening followed her 
every step which she took forward. 

“See, see,” cried a woman, with dishevelled 
hair, which streamed out from her round cap, and 
fell down over her red, angry face — “ see, that is 
the baker’s woman, and the monkey that jumps 
in front of her is the apprentice-boy ! They can 
dress themselves up and be fine, for all is well 
with them, and they can eat cakes, while we have 
to go hungry. But wait, only wait ! times will be 
different by and by, and we shall see the baker- 
woman as hungry as we. But when we have the 
bread, we will give her none — no, we will give her 
none ! ” 

“No, indeed, we will give her none ! ” roared, 
and cried, and laughed, and howled the mob. 
And they all pressed closer up to the fence, and 
naked arms and clinched fists were thrust through 
the palings, and threatened the queen, and the 
dauphin, who walked in front of his mother. 

“ Will he be able to bear it ? Will my poor 
boy not weep with fear and anxiety ? ” That was 
the only thought of the queen, as she walked on 
past the angry roars of the crowd. To the dau- 
phin alone all her looks were directed ; not once 
did she glance at the fence, behind which the pop- 
ulace roared like a pack of lions. 

All at once the breath of the queen stopped, 
and her heart ceased beating, with horror. She 
saw directly at the place where the path turned 
and ran away from the fence, but where, before 
making the turn, it ran very near the fence, the 
bare arm of a man extended through the paling 
as far as possible, and stretching in fact half-way 
across the path, as if it were a tumpike-bar stop- 
ping the way. 

The eyes of the queen, when they fell upon this 
dreadful, powerful arm, turned at once in deep 
alarm to the dauphin. She saw him hesitate a 
little in his hurried course, and then go slowly 
forward. The queen quickened her steps in or- 
der to come up with the dauphin before he 
should reach the danger which confronted him. 
The people outside of the fence, when they saw 


the manoeuvre of the man who vas forcing his jj'. 
arm still farther in, stopped their shouting and ^ 
lapsed into a breathless, eager silence, as some- j 
times is the case in a storm, between the succes- 
sive bursts of wind and thunder. ft. 

Every one felt that the touch of that threaten- :■ 
ing arm and that little child might be like the 
contact of steel and flint, and elicit sparks which 
should kindle the fires of another revolution. It 
was this feeling which made the crowd silent; ^ 
the same feeling compelled the queen to quicken ^ 
her steps, so that she was close to the dauphin ■ 
before he had reached this terrible turnpike- 
bar. 

“ Come here, my son,” cried the queen, “ give 
me your hand ! ” 

But before she had time to grasp the hand of 
the little prince, he sprang forward and stood di- 
rectly in front of the outstretched arm. 

“ My God ! what will he do ? ” whispered the 
queen to herself. 

At the same instant, there resounded from be- 
hind the fence a loud, mighty bravo, and a thou- 
sand voices took it up and cried, “ Bravo ! bra- 
vo ! ” 

The dauphin had stretched up his little white 
hand and laid it upon the brown, clinched fist 
that was stretched out toward him, and nodded 
pleasantly at the man who looked down so fiercely 
upon him. 

“ Good-day, sir ! ” he said, with a loud voice — 

“ good-day ! ” 

And he took hold with his little hand of the 
great hand of the man and shook it a little, as in | 
friendly salutation. 

“ Little knirps,” roared the man, “ what do you 
mean, and how dare you lay your little paw on 
the claws of the lion ? ” . 

“Sir,” said the boy, smiling, “I thought you®| 
were stretching out your hand to reach me with fij 
it, and so I give you mine, and say, ‘ Good-day,'* 
sir!”’ 1 

“ And if I wanted, I could crush your hand in ^ 
my fist as if it were in a vice,” cried the man,'* 
holding the little hand firmly. * 

“You shall not do it,” cried hundreds and hun-'ii 


MAMMA QUEEN. 


127 


dreds of voices in the crowd. “ No, Simon, you 
shall not hurt the child.” 

“ Who of you could hinder me if I wanted to ? ” 
asked the man, with a loud laugh. “ See here, I 
hold the hand of the future King of France in my 
fist, and I can break it if I want to, and make it 
so that it can never lift the sceptre of France. 
The little monkey thought he would take hold of 
my hand and make me draw it back, and now my 
hand has got his and holds it fast. And mark 
this, boy, the time is past when kings seized us 
and trod us down ; now we seize them and hold 
them fast, and do not let them go unless we 
will.” 

“ Sir ! ” cried the queen, motioning back with 
a commanding gesture the two lackeys who were 
hurrying up to release the dauphin from the hand 
of the man, “ sir, I beg you to withdraw your 
hand, and not to hinder us in our walk.” 

' . “ Ah ! you are there, too, madame, the baker’s 

; wife, are you ? ” cried the man, with a horrid 
laugh. “We meet once more, and the eyes of 
our most beautiful queen fall again upon the dirty, 
pitiable face of sucn a poor, wretched creature as, 
in your heavenly eyes, the cobbler Simon is!” 

“Are you Simon the cobbler?” asked Marie 
Antoinette. “It is true, I bethink me now, I 
have spoken with you once before. It was when 
I carried the prince here, for the first time, to 
I Notre Dame, that God would bless him, and that 
the people might see him. You stood then by my 
! carriage, sir!” 

1 “Yes, it is true,” answered Simon, visibly flat- 
i tered. “You have, at least, a good memory, 
queen. But you ought to have paid attention to 
! what I said to you. I am no ‘ sir,’ I am a simple 
■ cobbler, and earn my poor bit of bread in the 
* sweat of my brow, while you strut about in your 
I glory and happiness, and cheat God out of day- 
light. Then I held the hand of your daughter in 
my fist, and she cried out for fear, merely be- 
cause a poor fellow like me touched her.” 

“But, Mr. Simon, you see very plainly that I 
do not cry out,” said the dauphin, with a smile. 
“ I know that you do not want to do me any 
harm, and I ask you to be so good as to take 


away your arm, that my mamma can go on in her 
walk.” 

“ But, suppose that I do not do as you want me 
to?” asked the cobbler, defiantly. “ I suppose it 
would come that your mamma would dictate to 
me, and perhaps call some soldiers, and order 
them to shoot the dreadful people ? ” 

“You know. Master Simon, that I give no such 
command, and never gave any such,” said the 
queen, quickly. “ The king and I love our people, 
and never would give orders to our soldiers to fire 
upon them.” 

“ Because you would not be sure, madame, that 
the soldiers would obey your commands, if you 
should,” laughed Simon. “ Since we got rid of 
the Swiss guards, there are no soldiers left who 
would let themselves be torn in pieces for their 
king and queen ; and you know well that if the 
soldiers should fire the first shot at us, the people 
would tear the soldiers in pieces afterward. Yes, 
yes, the fine days at Versailles are past ; here, in 
Paris, you must accustom yourself to ask, instead 
of command, and the arm of a single man of the 
people is enough to stop the Queen and the Dau- 
phin of France.” 

“You are mistaken, sir,” said the queen, whose 
proud heart could no longer be restrained, and 
allow her to take this humble stand ; “ the Queen 
of France and her son will no longer be detained 
by you in their walk.” 

And with a quick movement she caught the 
dauphin, struck back at the same moment the 
fist of the cobbler, snatched the boy away like 
lightning, and passed by before Simon had time 
to put his arm back. 

The people, delighted with this energetic and 
courageous action of the queen — the people, wno 
would have howled with rage, if the queen had 
ordered her lackeys to push the cobbler back, 
now roared with admiration and with pleasure, to 
see the proud-hearted woman have the boldness 
to repel the assailant, and to free herself from 
him. They applauded, they laughed, they shouted 
from thousands upon tho isands of throats, “Long 
live the queen ! Long live the dauphin ! ” and the 
cry passed along like wildfire through the whole 


128 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


mass of spectators behind the fence, and all eyes 
followed the tall and proud figure of the queen as 
she walked away. 

Only the eyes of Simon pursued her with a 
malicious glare, and his clinched fists threatened 
her behind her back. 

“ She shall pay for this ! ” he muttered, with a 
withering curse. “ She has struck back my hand 
to-day, but the day will come when she will feel it 
upon her neck, and when I will squeeze the hand 
of the little rascal so that he shall cry out with 
pain ! I believe now, what Marat has so often 
told me, that the time of vengeance is come, and 
that we must bring the crown down and tread it 
under our feet, that the people may rule ! I will 
have my share in it. I will help bring it down, 
and tread it under foot. I hate the handsome 
Austrian woman, who perks up her nose, and 
thinks herself better than my wife; and if the 
golden time has come of which Marat speaks, 
when the people are the master, and the king is the 
servant, Marie Antoinette shall be my waiting- 
maid, and her son shall be my chore-boy, and his 
buckle shall make acquaintance with my shoe- 
straps ! ” 

And while Master Simon was muttering this to 
himself, he was making a way through the crowd 
with those great elbows of his, a slipping along 
the fence, to be able to follow as long as possible 
the taU figure of the queen, who was now leading 
the dauphin by the hand, traversing the Arcadian 
Walk. At the end of it was the fence which led 
into the little garden reserved for the royal fam- 
ily. Through the iron gate, hard by, adorned 
with the arms of the kings of France, Marie An- 
toinette entered an asylum, which had been saved 
to the crown, free from the intrusion of the people, 
and she drew a free breath when one of the lack- 
eys closed the gate, and she heard the key grate 
in the lock. 

She stood still a moment to regain her com- 
posure, and then she felt that her feet were trem- 
bling, and that she scarcely had the power to go 
farther. It would have been a relief to her to 
have fallen there upon her knees, and poured all 
her sorrows and trials into the ear of God. But 


there were the lackeys behind her ; there was her 
little son, looking up to her with his great eyes ; 
and there was that dreadful cry coming up from 
the quay like the roaring of the sea. 

The queen could not utter a word of grief or 
sorrow, she could not sink to the ground in her 
weakness; she had to show a cheerful face to 
her son, and a proud brow to her servants. God 
only could look into her heart and see the tears 
which glowed there like burning coals. Yet in 
all her sadness she had a feeling of triumph, of 
proud satisfaction. She had preserved her free- 
dom, her independence ; she was not Lafayette’s 
prisoner! No, the Queen of France had not put 
herself under the protection of the people’s gen- 
eral ; she had not given him the power of watch- 
ing her with his hated National Guard, and of 
saying to them : “ At this or that hour the queen 
takes her walks, and, that she^may recreate her- 
self, we will protect her against the rage of the 
people ! ” 

No, she had defended herself,%he had remained 
the queen all the while, the free queen, and she 
had gained a victory over the people by showing 
them that she did not fear them. 

“Mamma,” cried the dauphin, interrupting her. 
in her painful and proud thoughts — “ mamma, 
there comes the king, there comes my papa 1 Oh, 
he will be glad to hear that I was so courageous 1 

The queen quickly stooped down and kissed 
him. “Yes, truly, my little Bayard, you have 
done honor to your great exemplar, and you have 
really been a little chevalier sans peur et sans re- . ] 
proche. But, my child, true bravery does not 
glory in its great deeds, and does not desire 
others to admire them, but keeps silent and 
leaves it to others to talk about them ! ” | , 

“Mamma, I will be silent, too,” cried the boy, Jr 
with glowing eyes. “ Oh, you shall see that I can ' 
be silent, and not talk at all about myself.” 

The king meanwhile, followed by some gentle' > ' 
men and servants, was coming forward with un* '.; ^ 
accustomed haste, and, in his eagerness to reachT^ j 
his wife, he had not noticed the beds, but was ^ 
treading under foot the last fading flowers of 
autumn. 


MAMMA QUEEN. 


129 


“ You are here at last, Marie,” said he, when he 
was near enough to speak. “ I wanted to go to 
meet you, to conduct you hither out of the park. 
You were gone very long, and I worried about 
you.” 

“ Why worried, sire ? ” asked the queen. 
“ What danger could threaten me in our gar- 
den ? ” 

“Do not seek to hide any thing from me, 
Marie,” said Louis, with a sigh. “ I know every 
thing ! The hate of the peopfe denies us any 
longer the enjoyment of the open air ! Lafayette 
and Bailly were with me after they were dismissed 
by you. They told me that you had given no 
favor to their united request, and that you. would 
not grant to General Lafayette the right to protect 
you while you are taking your walks.” 

“ I hope your majesty is satisfied with me,” 
answered Marie Antoinette. “ You fdel, like me, 
that it is a new humiliation for us if we are to 
allow our very enjoyment of nature to be under 
the control of the people’s general, and if even 
the air is no longer to be the free air for us ! ” 

“I have only thought that in such unguarded 
I walks you would be threatened with danger,” an- 
i swered the king, perplexed. “ Lafayette has 
painted to me in such dark and dreadful colors, 

: and I have so painfully had to confess that he 
i speaks the truth, that I could only think of your 
j safety, and take no other point of view than to 
I see you sheltered from the attacks of your ene- 
1 mies, and from the rage of these factions. I have 
therefore approved Lafayette’s proposal, and al- 
; lowed him to protect your majesty on your 
! walks.” 

, “ But you have not fixed definite hours for my 

j walks? You have not done that, sire, have 
I you ? ” 

I “ I have indeed done that,” answered the king, 
gently. “I am familiar with your habits, and 
know that in autumn and winter you usually take 
your walks between twelve and two, and in sum- 
mer afternoons between five and seven. I have 
therefore named these hours to General Lafay- 
ette.” 

The queen heaved a deep sigh. “ Sire,” she 
9 


said, softly, “ you yourself are binding tighter 
and tighter the chains of our imprisonment. To- 
day you limit our freedom to two poor hours, and 
that will be a precedent for others to continue 
what you have begun. We shall after this walk 
for two hours daily under the protection of M. de 
Lafayette, but there will come a time when his 
protection will not suffice, and no security will be 
great enough for us. For the royal authority 
which shows itself weak and dependent, and 
which does not draw power from itself — ^the 
royalty which suffers its crown to be borne up 
for it by the hands of others, confesses thereby 
that it is too weak to bear the burden itself. Oh, 
sire, I would rather you had let me break away 
from the rage of the people, while I might be 
walking unguarded, than be permitted to take 
my daily walks under the protection of M. de 
Lafayette ! ” 

“You see everything in too dark and sad a 
light,” cried the king. “ Every thing will come 
out right if we are only wise and carefully con- 
form to circumstances, and by well-timed conces- 
sions and admissions propitiate this hate and 
bring this enmity to silence.” 

The queen did not reply ; she stooped down to 
the dauphin, and, pressing a kiss upon his locks, 
whispered : “ Now you may tell every thing, Louis. 
It is not longer necessary to keep silent about 
any thing, for silence were useless ! So tell of 
your heroism, my son ! ” 

“ Is it of heroism that you talk ? ” said the king, 
whose nice ear had caught the words of the 
queen. 

“ Yes, of heroism, sire,” answered Marie An- 
toinette. “ But it is with us as with Don Quix 
ote ; we believed that we were fighting for our 
honor and our throne ; now we must confess that 
we only fought against windmills. I beg you 
now, sire, to inform General Lafayette that it is 
not necessary to call out his National Guards on 
my account, I shall not walk again ! ” 

And the queen kept her word. Never again 
during the winter did she go down into the gar- 
dens and park of the Tuileries. She never gave 
Lafayette occasion to protect her, but she at 


180 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


least gained thereby what Lafayette wanted to 
reach by his National Guard — she held the popu- 
lace away from the Tuileries. At first they stood 
in dense masses day after day along the fence of 
the park and the royal garden, but when they saw 
that Marie Antoinette would no more expose her- 
self to their curious and evil glances, they grew 
tired of waiting for her, and withdrew from the 
neighborhood of the Tuileries, — but only to re- 
pair to their clubs and listen to the raving 
speeches which Marat, Santerre, and other oflS- 
cers, hurled like poisoned arrows at the queen — 
only to go into the National Assembly and hear 
Mirabeau and Robespierre, Danton, Chenier, Pe- 
tion, and all the rest, the assembled representa- 
tives of the nation, launch their thundering 
philippics against a royalty appointed by the 
grace of God, and causing the people to believe 
that it was a royalty appointed by the wrath of 
God. 


CHAPTER XYL 

IN ST. CLOUD. 

The winter was passed-— a sad dismal winter for 
the royal family, and for Marie Antoinette in par- 
ticular! None of those festivities, those diver- 
sions, those simple and innocent joys, which are 
wont to adorn the life of a woman and of a 
queen 1 

Marie Antoinette is no more a queen who com- 
mands, who sees around her a throng of respect- 
ful courtiers, zealously listening to every word 
that falls from her lips ; Marie Antoinette is a 
grave solitary woman, who works much, thinks 
much, makes many plans for saving the kingdom 
and the throne, and sees all these plans ship- 
wrecks on the indecision and weakness of her 
husband. 

Far away from the queen lay those happy 
times when every day brought new joys and new 
diversions; when the dawn of a summer morning 
made the queen happy, because it promised her a 


delightful evening, and one of those charming 
idyls at Trianon. The brothers of the king, the 
schoolmaster and mayor of Trianon, had left 
France and had located themselves at Coblentz on 
the Rhine ; the Polignacs had fled to England ; 
the Princess Laraballe, too, had, at the wish of 
the queen, gone to negotiate with Pitt, in order to 
implore the all-powerful minister of George III. 
to give to the oppressed French crown more ma- 
terial and efiectual support than was afforded by 
the angry and bitter words which he hurled in 
Parliament against the riotous and rebellious 
French nation. The Counts de Besenval and 
Coigny, the Marquis de Lauzun, and Baron d’Ad- 
hemar, all the privileged friends of the summer 
days at Trianon and the winter days of Versailles, 
all, all, were gone. They had fled to Coblentz, and 
were at the court of the French princes. There 
they spun their intrigues, sought to excite a Euro- 
pean war against France ; from' there they hurled 
their flaming torches into France, their calum- 
nies against Queen Marie Antoinette, the Austrian 
woman. She alone was accountable for all the 
misfortunes and the disturbances of France, she 
alone had given occasion for the distrust now 
felt against royalty. On her head fell the curse 
and the burden of all the faults and sins which the 
French court had for a hundred years committed. 
There must be a sacrificial lamb, to be thrown in- 
to the arms glistening with spears and daggers, of 
a revolution wLich thirsted for blood and ven- 
geance, and Marie Antoinette had to be the victim. 

In her bleeding heart the spirits glowing with 
hate might cool themselves, and there the evil 
which her predecessors had done, was to be 
atoned for. Many a wrong had been done, and i 
the French nation had, no doubt, a right to be 
angry and to rage as does the lion for a long 
time kept in subjection, when at last, touched v 
too much by the iron of its keeper, it rises in its jS 
wildness, and with withering greed, tears him in^ 
pieces from whom it has suffered so long and so til 
much. The French people rose just as the^ 
incensed lion does, and determined to wreak their ' ' 
vengeance on their keepers, on those whom they [ 
had so long called their lords and rulers. ' | 


IN ST. CLOUD. 


131 


To pacify the lion some prey must be thrown 
to him, and to him who thirsts for vengeance and 
blood, a human offering must be brought to pro- 
pitiate him. 

Marie Antoinette had to be the offering to the 
lion ! Her blood had to flow for the sins of the 
Bourbons ! On her all the anger, the exaspera- 
tion, the rage of the people must concentrate! 
She must bear the blame of all the miseries and 
the needs of France ! She must satisfy the hun- 
ger for vengeance, in order that when the lion is 
appeased it can be made placable and patient 
again, the chains put on which he has broken in 
his rage — the chains, however, to which, when his 
rage is past, he must again submit. 

The queen, the queen is to blame for all ! Ma- 
rie Antoinette has brought royalty into discredit ; 
the Austrian woman has brought the hatred of 
the French nation upon herself, and she must 
atone for it, she alone ! 

Libels and calumnies are forged against the 
queen by those who were onee the friends and 
I cavaliers of the queen — cavaliers no longer, but 
cavillers now; the poisoned arrows are sent to 
France to be directed against the head of the 
queen, to destroy first her honor and good name, 
and then to make her a prey for scorn and con- 
tempt. 

If the h’on stills his rage and cools his hate 
I with Marie Antoinette as his victim, he will relax 
; again and bow to his king, for it is time for these 
I royal prinees to return to France and their loved 
I Paris once more. 

; The Count de Provence is the implacable enemy 
of the queen ; he can never forgive her for gain- 
I ing the heart of the king her husband, and leav- 
i ing no influence for his wise, clever brother. The 
i Count de Provence is avaricious and crafty. He 
I sees that an abyss has opened before the throne 
I of the lilies, and that it will not close again ! It 
must, therefore, be filled up ! A reconciliation 
will not be possible in a natural way, and artificial 

I 

I methods must be found to accomplish it. Louis 
I XYI. will not be saved, and Marie Antoinette 
shall not be ! The two, perhaps, can fill up the 
abyss that yawns between the throne of the lilies 


and the French people ! They, perhaps, may fill 
it up, and then a way may be made for the Count 
de Provence, the successor of his brother. 

The Count d’ Artois was once the friend of the 
queen, the only one of the royal family who 
wished her well, and who defended her sometimes 
against the hatred of the royal aunts and sisters- 
in-law, and the crafty brother. But while living 
in Coblentz, the Count d’ Artois had become the 
embittered enemy of Marie Antoinette. He had 
heard it so often said on all sides that the queen 
by her levity, her extravagance, and her intrigues, 
was the cause of all, that she alone had brought 
about the revolution, that he at last believed it, 
and turned angrily against the royal woman, 
whose worst offence in the eyes of the prince lay 
in this, that she had been the occasion of his en- 
forced exile to Coblentz. 

And Marie Antoinette knew all these in- 
trigues which were forged by the prince in Cob- 
lentz against herself — knew about all the calum- 
nies that were set in circulation there ; she read 
the libels and pamphlets which the storm-wind 
of revolution shook from the dry tree of monar- 
chy like withered autumn leaves, and scattered 
through all Franee, that they might be every- 
where found and read. 

“ They will kill me,” she would often say, with 
a sigh, after reading these pamphlets steeped with 
hate, and written in blood — “ yes, they will kill me, 
but with me they will kill the king and the mon- 
archy too. The revolution will triumph over us 
all, and hurl us all together down into the grave.” 

But still she would make efforts to control the 
revolution and restore the monarchy again out of 
its humiliations. The Emperor Joseph IL, 
brother of the queen, once said of himself, “ I am 
a royalist, because that is my business.” Marie 
Antoinette was a royalist not because it was her 
business ; she was a royalist by conviction, a roy- 
alist in her soul, her mind, and her inmost nature. 
For this she would defend the monarchy ; for 
this she would contend against the revolution, 
until she should either constrain it to terms or be 
swallowed up in it. 

All her efforts, all her cares, were directed only 


182 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


to this, to kindle in the king the same courage 
that animated her, to stir him with the same fire 
that burned in her soul. But alas ! Louis XYl. 
was no doubt a good man and a kind father, but 
he was no king. He had no doubt the wish to 
restore the monarchy, but he lacked the requisite 
energy and strong will. Instead of controlling 
the revolution with a fiery spirit, he sought to con- 
ciliate it by concession and mild measures ; and 
instead of checking it, he himself went down 
before it. 

But Marie Antoinette could not and would not 
give up hope. As the king, would not act, she 
would act for him ; as he would not take part in 
politics, she would do so for him. With glowing 
zeal she plunged into business, spent many hours 
each day with the ministers and dependants of the 
court, corresponded with foreign lands, with her 
brother the Emperor Leopold, and her sister. 
Queen Caroline of Naples, wrote to them in a 
cipher intelligible only to them, and sent the let- 
ters through the hands of secret agents, implor- 
ing of them assistance and help for the mon- 
archy. 

In earnest labor, in unrelieved care and busi- 
ness, the queen’s days now passed ; she sang, she 
laughed no more; dress had no longer charms 
for her ; she had no more conferences with Mad- 
emoiselle Bertin, her milliner ; her hair-dresser, 
M. Leonard, had no more calls upon his genius for 
new coiffures for her fair hair ; a simple, dark 
dress, that was the toilet of the queen, a lace 
handkerchief round the neck, and a feather was 
her only head-dress. 

Once she had rejoiced in her beauty, and 
smiled at the flatteries which her mirror told her 
when it reflected her face ; now she looked wdth 
indifference at her pale, worn face, with its sharp 
grave features, and it awoke no wonder within 
her when the mirror told her that the queen of 
France, in spite of her thirty-six years, was old ; 
that the roses on her cheeks had withered, and 
that care had drawn upon her brow those lines 
which age could not yet have done. She did not 
grieve over her lost beauty ; she looked with com- 
placency at that matron of six-and-thirty years 


whose beautiful hair showed the traces* of that 
dreadful night in October. She had her picture 
painted, in order to send it to London, to the tru- 
est of her friends, the Princess Lamballe, and 
with her own hands she wrote beneath it the 
words : “ Your sorrows have whitened your 

hair.” 

And yet in this life full of cares, full of work, 
full of pain and humiliation — in these sad days of 
trouble and resignation, there were single gleams 
of sunshine, scattered moments of happiness. 

It was a ray of sunshine when this sad winter 
in the Tuileries was past, and the States-General 
allowed the royal family to go to St. Cloud and 
spend the summer there. Certainly it was a new 
humiliation for the king to receive permission to 
reside in his own summer palace of St. Cloud. But 
the States-General called themselves the pillars of 
the throne, and the king who sat upon this shak- 
ing throne was very dependent upon its sup- 
port. 

In St. Cloud there was at least a little freedom, 
a little solitude and stillness. The birds sang in 
the foliage, the sun lighted up the broad halls of 
the palace, in which a few faithful ones gathered 
around the queen and recalled at least a touch of 
the past happiness to her brow. In St. Cloud she 
was again the queen, she held her court there. 
But how different was this from the court of 
former days. 

No merry laughter, no cheerful singing re- 
sounded through these spacious halls ; no pleas- 
ant ladies, in light, airy, summer costume swept 
through the fragrant apartments ; M. d’Adhe- 
mar no longer sits at the spinet, and sings with 
his rich voice the beautiful arias from the opera 
“ Richard of the Lion Heart,” in which royalty 
had its apotheosis, and in which the singer Garat^ 
had excited all Paris to the wildest demonstra- 
tions of delight ! And not all Paris, but Ver- 
sailles as well, and in Versailles the royal court ! 

Louis XVI. himself had been in rapture at the 
aria which Garat sang with his flexible tenor 
voice in so enchanting a manner — “ Oh, Richard ! 
oh, mon roi ! ” — an aria which had once procured 
him a triumph in the very theatre. For when 


IN ST. CLOUD. 


133 


Garat began this air with his full voice, and every 
countenance was directed to the box where the 
royal family were sitting, the whole theatre rose, 
and the hundreds upon hundreds present had 
joined in the loud, jubilant strains — “ Oh, Eich- 
ard ! oh, mon roi ! ” 

Louis XYI. was grateful to the spirited singer, 
* who, in that stormy time, had the courage to 
publicly offer him homage, and he had therefore 
acceded to the request of the queen, that Garat 
should be invited to the private concerts of the 
queen at Versailles, and give her instruction on 
those occasions in the art of singing. 

Marie Antoinette thought of those pleasant 
days of the past, as she sat in the still, deserted 
music-room, where the instruments stood silent 
by the wall — where there were no hands to entice 
the cheerful melodies from the strings, as there 
had once been. % 

“ I wish that I had never sung duets with 
Garat,” whispered the queen to herself. “ The 
king allowed me, but yet I ought not to have 
done it. A queen has no right to be free, merry, 
and happy. A queen can practise the fine arts 
only alone, and in the silence of her own apart- 
ments. I would I had never sung with Garat.”^ 

She sat down before the spinet and opened it. 
Her fingers glided softly over the keys, and for 
the first time, in long months of silence, the room 
resounded with the tones of music. 

But, alas ! it was no cheerful music which the 
fingers of the queen drew from the keys ; it was 
only the notes of pain, only cries of grief ; and 
yet they recalled the happy by-gone times — those 
golden, blessed days, when the Queen of France 
was the friend of the arts, and when she received 
her early teaeher, the great maestro and chevalier, 
Gluck, in Versailles ; when she took sides for him 
against the Italian maestro Lully, and when all Paris 
divided into two parties, the Gluckists and Lully- 
ists, waging a bloodless war against each other. 
Happy Paris ! At that time the interests of art 
alone busied all spirits, and the battle of opinions 
was conducted only with the pen. Gluck owed it 

♦ The queen’s own words.— See “Memoires de Madame 
de Campan,” vol ii. 


to the mighty influence of the queen that his 
opera “ Alcestes ” was brought upon the stage; 
but at its first representation the Lullyists gained 
the victory, and condemned it. In despair, Gluck 
left the opera-house, driven by hisses into the 
dark street. A friend followed him and detained 
him, as he was hurrying away, and spoke in the 
gentlest tones. But Gluck interru'pted him with 
wild violence: “ Oh, my friend!” cried he, fall- 
ing on the neck of him who was expressing his 
kindly sympathy, “ ‘Alcestes’ has fallen 1” But 
his friend pressed his hand, and said, “ Fallen ? 
Yes, ‘Alcestes’ has fallen! It has fallen from 
heaven ! ” 

The queen thought of this as she sat before the 
spinet — thought how moved Gluck was when he 
related this answer of his friend, and that he, who 
had been so kind, was the Duke d’Adhemar. 

She had thanked him for this gracious word by 
giving him her hand to kiss, and Adhemar, kneel- 
ing, had pressed his lips to her hand. And that 
was the same Baron Adhemar who was now 
at Coblentz assisting the prince to forge libels 
against herself, and who was himself the author 
of that shameless lampoon which ridiculed the 
musical studies of the queen, and even the duet 
which she had sung with Garat ! 

Softly glided her fingers over the keys, softly 
flowed over her pale, sunken cheeks two great 
tears — tears which she shed as she thought of the 
past — ^tears full of bitterness and pain ! But no, 
no, she would not weep ; she shook the tears from 
her eyes, and struck the keys with a more vigor- 
ous touch. Away, away, those recollections of 
ingratitude and faithlessness ! Art shall engage 
her thoughts in the music-room, and to Gluck and 
“ Alcestes ” the hour belongs ! 

The queen struck the keys more firmly, and 
began to play the noble “ Love’s Complaint,” of 
Gluck’s opera. Unconsciously her lips opened, 
and with loud voice and intense passionate ex- 
pression, she sang the words, “ Oh, crudel, non 
posso in vere, tu lo sui, senza dite ! ” 

At the first notes of this fine voice the door in 
the rear of the room had lightly opened — ^the one 
leading to the garden — and the curly head of the 


134 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


dauphin was thrust in. Behind him were Mad- 
ame de Tourzel and Madame Elizabeth, who, like 
the prince, were listening in breathless silence to 
the singing of the queen. 

As she ended, and when the voice of Marie An- 
toinette was choked in a sigh, the dauphin flew 
with extended arms across the hall to his mother. 

“ Mamma queen,” cried he, beaming with joy, 
“ are you singing again ? I thought my dear 
mamma had forgotten now to sing. But she has 
begun to sing again, and we are all happy once 
more.” 

Marie Antoinette folded the little fellow in her 
arms, and did not contradict him, and nodded 
smilingly to the two ladies, who now approached 
and begged the queen’s pardon for yielding to the 
pressing desires of the dauphin, and entering with- 
out permission. 

“ Oh, mamma, my dear mamma queen,” said 
the prince, in the most caressing way, “I have 
been very industrious to-day ; the abbe was sat- 
isfied with me, and praised me, because I wrote 
well and learned my arithmetic well. Won’t you 
give me a reward for that, mamma queen ? ” 

“What sort of a reward do you want, my 
child ? ” asked the queen, smiling. 

“ Say, first, that you will give it.” 

“ WeU, yes, I will give it, my little Louis ; now 
tell me what it is.” 

“ Mamma queen, I want you to sing your little 
Louis a song ; and,” he added, nodding at the two 
ladies, “ that you allow these friends of mine to 
hear it.” 

“ Well, my child, I will sing for you,” answered 
Marie Antoinette, “and our good friends shall 
hear it.” 

The countenance of the boy beamed with pleas- 
ure ; with alacrity he rolled an easy-chair up to 
the piano, and took his seat in it in the most dig- 
nified manner. 

Madame Elizabeth seated herself near him on a 
tabouret, and Madame de Tourzel leaned on the 
back of the dauphin’s chair. 

“Now sing, mamma, now sing,” asked the 
dauphin. 

Marie Antoinette played a prelude, and as her 


eyes feU upon the group they lighted up with joy. ® 
and then turned upward to God with a look of V 
thankfulness. S, 

A few minutes before she had felt alone and m 
sad : she had thought of absent friends in bitter E 
pain, and now, as if fate would remind her of the » 
happiness which still remained to her, it sent her ® 
the son and the sister-in-law, both of whom loved 2 
her so tenderly, and the gentle and affection- £ 
ate Madame de Tourzel, whom Marie Antoinette £ 
knew to be faithful and constant unto death. H 
The flatterers and courtiers, the court ladies® 
and cavaliers, are no longer in the music-room ; ® 
the enraptured praises no longer accompany the S 
songs of the queen ; but, out of the easy-chair, K 
in which the Duchess de Polignac had sat so S 
often, now looks the beautiful blond face of her 
son, and his beaming countenance speaks more » 
eloquently to her than the flatteries of friends, wl 
On the tabouret, now occupied by her sister-in- ]B 
law, Madame Elizabeth, De Dillon has often sat— 
the handsome Dillon, and his glowing, admiring 
looks have often, perhaps, in spite of his own 
will, said more to the queen than she allowed 
herself to understand, as her heart thrilled in 
sweet pain and secret raptures under those 
glances ! How pure and innocent is the face 
which now looks out from this chair — the face of 
an angel who bears God in his heart and on his K 
countenance ! || | 

“ Pray for me ; pray that God may let me drink 
of Lethe, that I may forget all that has ever been ! ^ j 
Pray that I may be satisfied with what remains,^ 
and that my heart may bow in humility and pa- y 
tience ! ” M' 

Thus thought the queen as she began to sing,fl 
not one of her great arias which she had studied®! 
with Garat, and which the court used to applaud,® 
but one of those lovely little songs, full of feeling j I 
and melody, which did not carry one away in ad-T J 
miration, but which filled the heart with joy and |||l 
deep emotion. 0 

With suspended breath, and great eyes directed . 
fixedly to Marie Antoinette, the dauphin listened, 
but gradually his eyes fell, and motionless and 4 
with grave face the child sat in his arm-chair. 


IN ST. CLOUD. 


135 


Marie Antoinette saw it, and began to sing one 
of those cradle-songs of the “ Children’s Friend,” 
which Berquin had written, and Gretry had set to 
music so charmingly. 

i How still was it in the music-room, how full and 
touching was the voice of the queen as she began 
the last verse : 

“ Oh, sleep, my child, now go to sleep. 

Thy crying grieves my heart ; 
j Thy mother, child, has cause to weep, 

[ But sleep and feel no smart.” * 

All was still in the music-room when the last 
words were sung ; motionless, with downcast eyes, 

! sat the dauphin long after the sad voice of the 
queen had ceased. 

*‘Ah, see,” cried Madame Elizabeth, with a 
smile, “I believe now our Louis has fallen 
asleep.” 

I But the child quickly raised his head and looked 
at the smiling young princess with a reproachful 
I glance. 

I “ Ah, my dear aunt,” cried he, reprovingly, 
“ how could any one sleep when mamma 
sings ? ” f 

Marie Antoinette drew the child within her 
arms, and her countenance beamed with delight. 
Never had the queen received so grateful a com- 
pliment from the most flattering courtier as these 
words of her fair-haired boy conveyed, who threw 
' his arms around her neck and nestled up to her. 

The Queen of France is still a rich, enviable 
woman, for she has children who love her ; the 
Queen of France ought not to look without cour- 
age into the future, for the future belongs to her 
son. The throne which now is so tottering and 
insecure, shall one day belong to him, the darling 
of her heart, and therefore must his mother strug- 
gle with all her power, and with all the means 
at her command contend for the throne for the 
Dauphin of France, that he may receive the in- 
heritance of his father intact, and that his throne 

♦ “ Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupidre, 

Tes cris me decMrent la coeur ; 

Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere 
A bien assez de sa doulenr.” 

t The dauphin’s own words. — See Beauchesne, vol. 
L, p. 2T. 


may not in the future plunge down into the abyss 
which the revolution has opened. 

No, the dauphin, Louis Charles, shall not then 
think reproachfully of his parents ; he shall not 
have cause to complain that through want of spirit 
and energy they have imperilled or lost the sacred 
heritage of his fathers. 

No, Queen Marie Antoinette may not halt and 
lose courage, — not even when her husband has 
done so, and when he is prepared to humbly 
bow his sacred head beneath that yoke of revo- 
lution, which the heroes and orators selected by 
the nation have wished to put upon his neck in 
the name of France. 

This makes hers a double duty, to be active, to 
plan, and work ; to keep her head erect, and look 
with searching eye in all directions to see whence 
help and deliverance are to come. 

Not from without can they come, not from for- 
eign monarchs, nor from the exiled princes. 
Foreign armies which might march into the coun- 
try would place the king, who had summoned 
them to flght with his own people, in the light of a 
traitor ; and the moment that they should pass the 
frontiers of France, the wrath of the nation would 
annihilate the royal couple. 

Only from those who had called down the dan- 
ger could help come. The chiefs of the revolu- 
tion, the men who had raised their threatening 
voices against the royal couple, must be won over 
to become the advocates of royalty. 

And who was more powerful, who more con- . 
spicuous among all these chiefs of the revolution, 
and all the orators of the National Assembly, than 
Count Mirabeau ! 

When he ascended the Speaker’s tribune of the 
National Assembly all were silent, and even his 
opponents listened with respectful attention to his 
words, which found an echo through all France ; 
when he spoke, when from his lips the thunder 
of his speeches resounded, the lightning flashed 
in his eyes, and his head was like the head of a 
lion, who, with the shaking of his mane and the 
power of his anger, destroyed every thing which 
dared to put itself in his way. And the French 
nation loved this lion, and listened in reverential 


136 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


silence to the thunder of his speech, and the 
throne shook before him. And the excitable 
populace shouted with admiration whenever they 
saw the lion, and deified that Count Mirabeau, 
who, with his powerful, lace-cuffed hand, had 
thrust these words into the face of his own caste : 
** They have done nothing more than to give them- 
selves the Uouble to be born.” 

The people loied this aristocrat, who was ab- 
horred by his family and the men of his own 
raitk ; this count whom the nobility hated because 
the Third Estate loved him. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MIRABEAir. 

“ Count Mirabeau must be won over,” Count 
de la Marck ventured to say one day to Marie 
Antoinette. “ Count Mirabeau is now the migh- 
tiest man in France, and he alone is able to bring 
the nation back again to the throne.” 

“It is he,” replied the queen, with a glow, 
“ who is most to blame for alienating the nation 
from the throne. Never will the renegade count 
be forgiven ! Never can the king stoop so low 
as to pardon this apostate, who frivolously pro- 
fesses the new religion of ‘ liberty,’ and disowns 
the faith of his fathers.” 

“Your majesty,” replied Count de la Marck, 
with a sigh, “ it may be that in the hand of this 
renegade lies the future of your son.” 

The queen trembled, and the proud expression 
on her features was softened. 

“ The future of my son ? ” said she. “ What 
do you mean by that ? What has Count Mirabeau 
to do with the dauphin ? His wrath follows us 
only, his hatred rests upon us alone ! I grant 
that at present he is powerful, but over the future 
he has no sway. I hope, on the contrary, that the 
future will avenge the evil that Mirabeau does to 
us in the present.” 

“ But how does it help, madame, if vengeance 


hurries him on ? ” asked Count de la Marck, sad 
ly. “ The temple which Samson pulled down was 
not built again, that Samson might be taken from 
its ruins ; it remained in its dust and fragments, 
and its glory was gone forever. Oh, I beseech 
your majesty, do not listen to the voice of your 
righteous indignation, but only to the voice of pru- 
dence. Master your noble, royal heart, and seek 
to reconcile your adversaries, not 'to punish 
them ! ” 

“ What do you desire of me ? ” asked Marie 
Antoinette, in amazement. “ What shall I do ? ” 

“ Your majesty must chain the lion,” whis- 
pered the count. “Your majesty must have the 
grace to change Mirabeau the enemy into Mira- 
beau the devoted ally and friend ! ” 

“ Impossible, it is impossible ! ” cried the queen, 
in horror. “ I cannot descend to this. 1 never 
can view with friendly looks this monster who is 
accountable for the horrors of those October days. 

I can only speak of this man, who has created his 
reputation out of his crimes, who is a faithless 
son, a faithless husband, a faithless lover, a faith- 
less aristocrat, and a faithless royalist — I can 
only speak of him in words of loathing, scorn, 
and horror ! No, rather die than accept assist- 
ance from Count Mirabeau ! Do you not know, 
count, that he honors me his queen with his en- 
mity and his contempt ? Is it not Mirabeau who 
caused the States-General to accept the words 
‘ the person of the king is inviolable,’ and to re- 
ject the words and ‘ that of the queen ! ’ Was it 
not Mirabeau who once, when my friends exhorted ' 
him to moderation, and besought him to soften . i 
his words about the Queen of France, had the ; ! 
grace to answer with a shrug, ‘Well, she may ’.'vl 
keep her life!’ Was it not Mirabeau who was ' ■ 
to blame for the October days ? Was it not !; 
Mirabeau who publicly said : ‘ The king and the / )i 
queen are lost. The people hates them so, that 
they would even destroy their corpses ? ’ ” * ' ' 'j 

“ Your majesty, Mirabeau said that, not as a • ^ 

1 

threat, but out of pity, and deep concern and sym- - -j 
pathy.” 

* The queen’s own words.— See Goncourt, “Marie An- * 
toinette,” p. 205. 


MIRABEAU. 


“ Sympathy ! ” repeated the queen, “ Mirabeau, 
who hates us ! ” 

“No, your majesty, Mirabeau, who honors his 
queen, who is ready to give his life for you and 
for the monarchy, if your majesty will forgive him 
and receive him as a defender of the throne ! ” 

The queen shuddered, and looked in astonish- 
ment and terror at the excited face of Count de la 
March. “Are you speaking of Mirabeau, the 
tribune of the people,” she asked, “the fiery 
orator of the National Assembly ? ” 

“ I am speaking of Count Mirabeau, who yes- 
terday was the enemy of the throne, and who to- 
day will be a zealous defender, if your majesty 
will only have it so — ^if your majesty will only 
speak a gracious word to him.” 

“ It is impossible, it is impossible ! ” whispered 
the queen. 

De la Marck continued : “ Since he has fre- 
quently seen your majesty — since he has had occa- 
sion to observe your proud spirit and lofty resig- 
nation — a change has taken place in the character 
of Mirabeau. He is subdued as the lion is sub- 
dued, when the beaming eye of a pure soul looks 
it in the face. He might be of service again, he 
might be reconciled ! He writes, he speaks of his 
exalted queen with admiration, with enthusiasm ; 
he glows with a longing desire to confess his sins 
at the feet of your majesty, and to receive your 
forgiveness.” 

“ Does the king know this ? ” asked Marie An- 
toinette. “ Has any one told his majesty ? ” 

“ I should not have taken the liberty of speak- 
ing to your majesty about these things if the king 
had not authorized me,” replied Count de la 
Marck, bowing. “ His majesty recognizes it to 
be a necessary duty to gain Mirabeau to the 
throne, and he hopes to have in this matter the 
cooperation of his exalted wife.” 

Marie Antoinette sadly shook her head. “I 
will speak with his majesty about it,” she said, 
with a sigh, “but only under circumstances of 
extreme urgency can I submit to this, I tell you 
in advance.” 

But the case was of extreme urgency, and when 
Marie Antoinette had seen it to be so, she kept 


13 ^, 

her word and conformed to it, and commissioned 
Count de la Marck to tell his friend Mirabeau 
that the queen would grant him an audience. 

But in order that this audience might be of ad- 
vantage, it must be conducted with the deepest 
secrecy. No one ought to suspect that Mirabeau, 
the tribune of the people, the adored hero of the 
revolution — Mirabeau, who ruled the National As- 
sembly, and Paris itself, whom the freest of the 
free hailed as their apostle and saviour, who 
vith the power of his eloquence ruled the spirits 
of thousands and hundreds of thousands of men, 
— no one could suspect that the leader of the 
revolution would now become the devoted de- 
pendant upon the monarchy, and the paid servant 
of the king. 

Two conditions Mirabeau had named, when 
Count de la Marck had tried to gain him over in 
the name of the king : an audience with the queen, 
and the payment of his debts, together with a 
monthly pension of a hundred louis-d’or. 

“ I am paid, but not bought,” said Mirabeau, 
as he received his first payment. “ Only one of 
my conditions is fulfilled, but what will become 
of the other ? ” 

“ And so you still insist on having an audience 
with the queen ? ” asked La Marck. 

“Yes, I insist upon it,” said Mirabeau, with 
flaming eyes. “ If I am to battle and speak for 
this monarchy, I must learn to respect it. If I 
am to believe in the possibility of restoring it, 
I must believe in its capacity of life ; I must see 
that I have to deal with a brave, decided, noble 
man. The true and real king here is Marie An- 
toinette ; and there is only one man in the whole 
surroundings of Louis XYI., and that is his wife. 
I must speak with her, in order to hear and to see 
whether she is worth the risking of my life, honor, 
and popularity. If she really is the heroine that I 
hold her to be, we will both united save the mon- 
archy, and the throne of Louis XYI., whose 
king is Marie Antoinette. The moment is soon 
to come when we shall learn what a woman 
and a child can accomplish, and whether the 
daughter of Maria Theresa with the dauphin in 
her arms cannot stir the hearts of the French as 


188 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


her great mother once stirred the Hunga- 
rians.” * 

“ Do you then believe the danger is so great,” 
asked La March, “that it is necessary to resort to 
extreme, heroic measures ? ” 

Mirabeau grasped his arm with a sudden move- 
ment, and an expression of solemn earnestness 
filled his lion-like face. 

“I am convinced of it,” he answered, “and I 
will add, the danger is so great, that if we do not 
soon meet it and in heroic fashion, it will not be 
possible to control it. There is no other securi- 
ty for the queen than through the reestablish- 
ment of the royal authority. I believe of her, that 
she does not desire life without her crown, and I 
am certain that, in order to keep her life, she 
must before all things preserve her crown. And 
I will help her and stand by her in it ; and for 
this end I must myself speak with her and have 
an audience.” f 

And Mirabeau, the first man in the revolu- 
tion had his audience with Marie Antoinette, the 
dying champion of monarchy. 

On the 8rd of July, 1790, the meeting of the 
queen and Mirabeau took place in the park of St. . 
Cloud. Secrecy and silence surrounded them, and 
extreme care had been taken to let no one sus- 
pect, excepting a few intimate friends, what was 
taking place on this sequestered, leaf-embowered 
grass-plat of St. Cloud. 

A bench of white marble, surrounded by high 
oleander and taxus trees, stood at the side of 
this grass-plat. It was the throne on which 
Marie Antoinette should receive the homage of 
her new knight. Mirabeau had on the day before 
gone from Paris to the estate of his niece, the 
Marchioness of Aragan. There he spent the 
night ; and the next morning, accompanied by his 
nephew, M. de Saillant, he walked to the park of 
St. Cloud. 

At the nether gate of the park, which had been 
left open for this secret visit, Mirabeau took leave 
of his companion, and extended him his hand. 

* Miralbeaii’s own words. — See “Marie Antoinette et sa 
Famine.” Par M. de Lescnre, p 478. 

tMirabeau’s own words. — See Count de la Marck, 
“ Mirabeau,” vol. iii., p. 80. 


“ I do not know,” he said, and his voice, which : 
so often had made the windows of the . assembly 
hall shake with its thunder, was now weak and 
tremulous, “ I do not know why this dreadful pre- 
sentiment creeps over me all at once, and why 
voices vrhisper to me, ‘ Turn back, Mirabeau, turn 
back ! Do not step over the threshold of this 
door, for there you are stepping into your open 
grave ! ’ ” 

“ Follow this voice, uncle, there is still time,” 
implored M. de Saillant ; “ it is with me as it is 
with you. I, too, have a sad, anxious feeling ! ” 

“ May they not have laid snares for me here ? ” 
whispered Mirabeau, thoughtfully. “ They are 
capable of every thing, these artful Bourbons. 
Who knows whether they have not invited me 
here to take me prisoner, and to cast me, w'hom 
they hold to be their most dangerous enemy, into 
one of their ouhlietteSy their subterranean dun- 
geons ? My friend,” he continued, hastily, “ wait 
for me here, and if in two or three hours I do not 
return, hasten to Paris, go to the National Assem- 
bly, and announce to them that Mirabeau, moved 
by the queen’s cry of distress, has gone to St. 
Cloud, anjd is there held a prisoner.” 

“ I will do it, uncle,” said the marquis, “ but I 
do not believe in any such treachery on the part 
of the queen or her husband. They both know 
that without Mirabeau they are certainly lost, and 
that he, perhaps, is able to save them. I fear 
something entirely different.” 

“ And what do you fear ? ” 

“ I fear your enemies in the National Assem- 
bly,” said M. de Saillant, and with a pained expres- 
sion. “I fear these enraged republicans, who 
have begun to mistrust you since you have be- ' 
gun to speak in favor of royalty and monarchy, 
and since you have even ventured to defend the 
queen personally against the savage and mean at- 
tacks which Marat hurls against Marie Antoinette 
in his journal, the Ami du PeupleP 

“It is true,” said Mirabeau, with a smile, 

“ they have mistrusted me, these enraged republi- 
cans, since then, and they tell me that Petion, this 
republican of steel and iron, turned to Danton at 
the close of my speech, and said : ‘ This Mirabeau ' 


MIRABEAU. 


139 


is dangerous to liberty, for there is too much of 
the blood of the count flowing through the veins 
of the tribune of the people.’ Banton answered 
! him with a smile : ‘ In that case we must draw 
off the count’s blood from the tribune of the 
’people, that he may either be cured of his reac- 
tionary disease or die of it ! ’ ” 

“ And when they told Marat, uncle, that you 
had spoken angrily and depreciatingly of his at- 
tacks upon the queen, he raised his fist threaten- 
j ingly, and cried : ‘ Mirabeau is a traitor, who wants 
to sell our new, young liberty to the monarchy. 
But he will meet the fate of Judas, who sold the 
' Saviour. He will one day atone for it with his 
, head, for if we tap him for his treachery, we shall 
i do for him what Judas did for himself. This 
Mirabeau Judas must take care of himself.’ ” 
“And do you suppose that this disputatious 
^ little toad of a Marat will hang me ? ” asked Mira- 
I beau, with a scornful smile. 

I “I think that you must watch him,” answered 
' M. de Saillant. “ Last evening, in the neighbor- 

! hood of our villa, I met two disguised men, who, 

i 

I I would swear, were Petion and Marat ; and on 
' our way here, as I looked around, I feel certain 
' that I saw these same disguised figures following 
! us ! ” ^ 

“ What if it be ? ” answered Mirabeau, raising 
I himself up, and looking around him with a proud 
I glance. “ The hon does not fear the annoying 
i insect that buzzes about him, he shakes it off* with 
j his mane or destroys it with a single stroke of his 
j paw. And Mirabeau fears just as little such in- 
i sects as Petion and Marat ; they would much bet- 
ter keep out of his way. I will tread them un- 
der foot, that is all ! And now, farewell, my dear 
nephew, farewell, and wait for me here ! ” 

He nodded familiarly to his nephew, passed 
over the threshold, and entered the park, from 
whose entrance the popular indignation had long 
since removed the obnoxious words, De par la 
Reme^ the garden belonging now to the king only 
because the nation willed it so. 

I Mirabeau hastened with an anxious mind and 

I 

a light step along the walk, and again it seemed 
to him as if dark spirits were whispering to him. 


“ Turn back, Mirabeau, turn back ! for with every 
step forward you are only going deeper into your 
grave.” He stopped, and with his handkerchief 
wiped away the drops of cold sweat which gath- 
ered upon his forehead. 

“ It is folly,” he said, “ perfect folly. Truly I 
am as tremulous as a girl going to her first ren- 
dezvous. Shame on you, Mirabeau, be a man ! ” 

He shook his head as if he wanted to dispel 
these evil forebodings, and hastened forward to 
meet Count de la Marck, who appeared at the 
bending of the allee, 

“ The queen is already here, and is waiting for 
you, Mirabeau,” said the marquis, with a slight 
reproach in his voice. 

Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders instead of re- 
plying, and went on more rapidly. There soon 
opened in front of them a small grass-plat, sur- 
rounded by bushes, and on the bench opposite, 
the lady in the white, neat dress, with a straw 
hat on her arm, her hair veiled with black lace — 
that lady was Marie Antoinette. 

Mirabeau stopped in his walk, and fixed a long, 
searching look upon her. When he turned again 
to his friend, his face was pale, and bore plain 
traces of emotion. 

“My friend,” whispered he to La Marck, “I 
know not why, but I have a strange feeling ! I 
have not wept since the day on which my father 
drove me with a curse from the house of my an- 
cestors, but, seeing yonder woman, I could weep, 
and an unspeakable sympathy fills my soul.” 

The queen had seen him, too, and had grown 
pale, and turned trembhngly to the king, who 
stood beside her, half concealed by the foliage. 

“ There is the dreadful man ! ” said Marie An- 
toinette, with a shudder. “ My God ! a thrill of 
horror creeps through all my veins, and if I only 
look at this monster, I have a feeling as though 1 
should sicken with loathing ! ” * 

“ Courage, my dear Marie, courage,” whispered 
the king. “Remember that the welfare of our 
future, and of our children, perhaps, depends 
upon this interview. See, he is approaching. Re- 

* The queen’s own words. — See “ Madame de Campan,” 
vol. ii. 


140 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


ceive him kindly, Marie. I will draw back, for 
you alone shall have the honor of this day, and 
monarchy has in you its fairest representative.” 

“But remain so near me, sire, that you can 
hear me if I call for help,” whispered Marie An- 
toinette. 

The king smiled. “ Fear nothing, Marie,” he 
said, “ and believe that the danger for Mirabeau 
is greater than for you. The name of criminal 
will be fastened not to us, but to Mirabeau, if it 
shall be known that he has come to visit us here. 
I will withdraw, for there is Mirabeau.” 

And the king withdrew into the thicket, while 
Mirabeau stopped near the queen, and saluted her 
with a profound bow. 

Marie Antoinette rose from her marble seat. 
At this moment she was not the queen giving an 
audience, but the anxious lady, advancing to meet 
danger, and desirous to mitigate it by politeness 
and smiles. 

“ Come nearer, count,” said Marie Antoinette, 
still standing. But as he approached, the queen 
sank slowly upon the seat, and raised her eyes to 
Mirabeau, with an almost timid look, who now did 
not seem to her a monster, for his mien was dis- 
turbed, and his eyes, which had always been rep- 
resented as so fearful, had a gentle, respectful ex- 
pression. 

“ Count,” said the queen, and her voice trem- 
bled a little — “ count, if I found myself face to 
face with an ordinary enemy, a man who was 
aiming at the destruction of monarchy, without 
seeing of what use it is for the people, I should 
be taking at this moment a very useless step. 
But when one talks with a Mirabeau, one is be- 
yond the ordinary conditions of prudence, and 
hope of his assistance is blended with wonder at 
the act.* 

“ Madame,” cried Mirabeau, deeply moved, “ I 
have not come here as your enemy, but as your 
devoted servant, who is ready cheerfully to give 
his life if he can be of any service to the mon- 
archy.” 

“ You believe, then, that it is a question of life, 

The queen’s own words.— See “ Marie Antoinette et 
sa Famille.” Par M. de Lescure, p. 484 


or, if you prefer, of death, which stands between 
the French people and the monarchy ? ” asked the 
queen, sadly. 

“ Yes, I am convinced of that,” answered Mi- 
rabeau. “ But I still hope that we can answer 
the question in favor of the monarchy, provided 
that the right means are applied in season.” 

“And what, according to your views, are the 
right means, count ? ” 

Mirabeau smiled and looked with amazement 
into the noble face of the queen, who, with such 
easy composure, had put into this one short ques- 
tion what for centuries had perplexed the greatest 
thinkers and statesmen to answer. 

“ Will your majesty graciously pardon me if I 
crave permission, before I answer, to put a ques- 
tion in like manner to my exalted queen ? ” 

“Ask on, count,” replied Marie Antoinette, 
with a gentle inclination of her head. 

“Well, madame, this is my question: ‘Does 
your majesty purpose and aim at the reestablish- 
ment of the old regime^ and do you deem it pos- 
sible to roll the chariot of human history and of 
politics backward ? ’ ” 

“You have in your question given the answer 
as well,” said Marie Antoinette, with a sigh. “ It 
is impossible to reerect the same edifice out of its 
own ruins. One must be satisfied if out of them 
a house can be built, in which one can manage to 
live.” 

“Ah, your majesty,” said Mirabeau, with feel- 
ing, “ this answer is the first ray of light which 
breaks through the heavy storm-clouds! The 
new day can be descried and hailed with delight ! 
After hearing this noble answer^ of your ma- 
jesty, I look up comforted, and the clouds do 
not terrify me longer, for I know that they will 
soon be past — that is, if we employ the right 
means.” 

“ And now I repeat my question, count. What, 
according to your view, are the right means ? ” 

“First of all, the recognition of what is wrong,” 
answered Mirabeau, “ and then the cheerful and 
honest will to do what is found to be necessary.” 

“ Well, tell me, what it is that is wrong? ” 

Mirabeau bowed, anjd then began to speak to her 


MIRABEAU. 


141 


in his clear, sharp way, which was at the same time 
so full of energy, of the situation of France, the 
!! relation of the various political parties to one 
j another, to the court, and the throne. In strong- 
ly-outlined sentences he characteriz^ed the chiefs of 
the political clubs, the leaders of tlie parties in the 
National Assembly, and spoke of the perilous 
( goal which the demagogues, the men of the ex- 
! treme Left, aimed at. He did not, from delicacy, 
speak the word “ republican,” but he gave the 
queen to understand that the destruction of the 
I monarchy and the throne, the annihilation of the 
royal family, was the ultimate object aimed at by 
all the raving orators and leaders of the extreme 
I Left. 

The queen had listened to him with eager, fixed 
attention, and, at the same time, with a dignified 
, composure ; and the earnest, thoughtful look of 
her large eyes had penetrated and moved Mira- 
^ beau more and more, so that his words came from 
I his lips like a stream of fire, and kindled a new 

I 

t hope even in himself. 

I “ All will yet be well,” he cried, in conclusion ; 
I “ we shall succeed in contending with the hidden 
I powers that wish to undermine your majesty’s 
i throne, and to take from the hands of your ene- 
I mies these dangerous weapons of destruction. I 
shall apply all my power, all my eloquence to 
' this. I will oppose the undertakings of the dema- 
,) gogues ; I will show myself to be their public op- 
j ponent, and zealously serve the monarchy, making 
use of all such means of help as are adapted to 
move men’s minds, and not to trouble and ter- 
I rify them, as if freedom and self-government were 
to be taken fro.m them, and yet whieh will restore 
the credit and power of the monarchy.” 

“ Are you, then, with honest and upright heart, 
a friend of ours ? ” asked Marie Antoinette, almost 
supplicatingly. “ Do you wish to assist us, and 
stand by us, with your counsel and help ? ” 

Mirabeau met her inquisitive and anxious look 
with a cordial smile, a noble and trustworthy ex- 
pression of face. 

“ Madame,” he said, yvith his fine, resonant 
voice, “ I defended monarchical principles when I 
saw only their weakness, and when I did not know 


the soul nor the thoughts of the daughter of Maria 
Theresa, and little reckoned upon having such an 
exalted mediator. I contended for the rights of 
the throne when I was only mistrusted, when cal- 
umny dogged all my steps, and declared me guilty 
of treachery ! I served the monarchy, then, when 
I knew that from my rightful, but misled king, I 
should receive neither kindness nor reward. What 
shall I do now, when confidence animates my 
spirit, and gratitude has made my duties run di- 
rectly in the eurrent of my principles ? I shall be 
and remain what I have always been, the defender 
of monarchy governed by law^ the apostle of lib- 
erty guaranteed by the monarchy.” ^ 

“ I believe you, count,” cried Marie Antoinette, 
with emotion. “ You will serve us with fidelity 
and zeal, and with your help all will yet be well. 
I promise you that we will follow your counsels, 
and act in concord with you. You will put your- 
self in communication with the king ; you will 
consult him about needful matters, and advise 
him about the things which are essential to his 
welfare and that of the people.” 

“ Madame,” replied Mirabeau, “ I take the lib- 
erty of adding this to what has already been said. 
The most necessary thing is that the royal court 
leave Paris for a season ! ” 

“ That we flee ? ” asked Marie Antoinette, 
hastily. 

“ Not flee, but withdraw,” answered Mirabeau. 
“ The exasperated people menace the monarchy, 
and therefore the threatened crown must for a 
while be concealed from the people’s sight, that 
they may be brought back to a sense of duty and 
loyalty. And, therefore, I do not say that the 
court must flee ; I only say it must leave Paris, 
for Paris is the furnace of the revolution ! The 
royal court must withdraw, as soon as possible, to 
the very boundaries of France ! It must there 
gather *an army, and put it under the command 
of some faithful general, and with this army 
march against the riotous capital ; and I will be 
there to smooth the way and open the gates ! ” 

“ I thank you, count, I thank you ! ” cried Ma- 

* Mirabeau’s own words.— See “ Memoires du Comte 
de Mirabeau,” vol. iil, p. 290. 


142 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


rie Antoinette, rising from her seat. “ Now, I 
doubt no more about tbe future, for my own 
thoughts coincide with those of our greatest 
statesmen ! I, too, am convinced the court ought 
to leave Paris — that it must withdraw, in order to 
escape new humiliations, and that it ought to re- 
turn only in the splendor of its power, and with 
an army to put the rebels to flight, and breathe 
courage into the timid and faithful. Oh ! you must 
tell the king all this ; you must show him that 
our removal from Paris is not only a means of 
salvation to the crown, but to the people as well. 
Your words will convince the noblest and best of 
monarchs ; he will fallow your counsels, and, 
thanks to you, not we alone, but the monarchy 
will be saved ! No, go to the work, count ! Be 
active in our behalf ; bring your unbounded in- 
fluence, in favor of the king and queen, to bear 
upon all spirits, and be sure that we shall be 
grateful to you so long as we live. Farewell, and 
remember that my eye will follow all your steps, 
and that my ears will hear every word which 
Mirabeau shall speak in the National Assembly.” 

Mirabeau bowed respectfully. “ Madame,” said 
he, “ when your exalted mother condescended to 
favor one of her subjects with an audience, she 
never dismissed him without permitting the fa- 
vored one respectfully to kiss her hand.” 

“ It is true,” replied Marie Antoinette, with a 
pleasant smile, “ and in this, at least, I can fol- 
low the example of my great mother ! ” 

And, with inimitable grace, the queen extended 
ner hand to him. Mirabeau, enraptured, beside 
himself at this display of courtesy and favor, 
dropped upon his knee and pressed his lips to 
the delicate, white hand of the queen. 

“ Madame,” cried he, with warmth, “ this kiss 
saves the monarchy ! ” * 

“ If you have spoken the truth, sir,” said the 
queen, with a sigh, rising and dismissing him, 
with a gentle inclination of her head. 

With excited and radiant looks, Mirabeau re- 
turned to his nephew, who was waiting for him at 
the gate of the park. 

* Mirabean’s own words. — See “ M6moires de Mira- 
beau,” vol. iv., p. 208. 


“ Oh ! ” said he, with a breath of relief, laying 
his hand upon the shoulder of Saillant, “what|;. 
have I not heard and seen ! She is very great^j i 
very noble, and very unhappy, Victor! But,”]|' 
cried he, with a loud, earnest voice, “ I will save 'f- : 
her — I will save her ! ” * i 

Mirabeau was in earnest in this purpose ; and i 
not because he had been bought over, but be» i 
cause he had been won — carried away with the T' 
noble aspect of the queen — did he become from i 
this time a zealous defender of the monarchy, an ' 
eloquent advocate in behalf of Marie Antoinette, c: 
But he was not now able to restrain the dashing | 
waves of revolution ; he could npt even save ^ i 
himself from being engulfed in these raging t 
waves. 

Mirabeau knew it well, and made no secret of 4 
the peril of his position. On the day when, before ^ 

i 

the division, he spoke in defence of the monarchy I 
and the royal prerogative, and undertook to de- y. 
cide the question of peace or war — on that day | 
he first announced himself openly for the king, 


and raised a storm of excitement and disgust in 
the National Assembly. Still he spoke r: 


bravely in behalf of the crown ; and while doing ^ 
so, he cried, “ I know well that it is only a single 
step from the capitol to the Tarpeian rock ! ” ;i\ 

Step after step ! And these successive steps " 


Mirabeau was soon to take. Petion had not in •. 


. ( 


i 


vain characterized Mirabeau as the most dan- 
gerous enemy of the republic. Marat had not as- tV 
sorted, without knowing what he said, that Mira- 
beau must let all his aristocratic blood flow from 4 

V f- 

his veins, or bleed to death altogether! Not with f 
impunity could Mirabeau encounter the rage of , 
parties, and fling down the gauntlet before them, M 
saying, at the same moment, “He would defend f 
the monarchy against all attacks, from what side ^ 
soever, and from what part soever of the kingdom ^ 
they might come.” ■- 

The leaders of the republican factions knew ^ 
very well how to estimate the power of Mirabeau ; 
they knew very well that Mirabeau was able to fit ^ ! 
together the fragments of the crown which he had . j 
helped to break. And, to prevent his doing this, 7- 1 
^ ^ 


♦ “ Marie Antoinette et sa Famille,” p. 480.. 


MIRABEAU. 


143 


they knew that he must be buried beneath these 
fragments. 

Soon after his interview with the queen — after 
his dissenting speech in behalf of the prerogative 
of the king — Mirabeau began to fail in health. 
His enemies said that it was only the result of 
'over-exertion, and a cold which he had brought 
on by drinking a glass of cold water during a 
speech in the National Assembly. His friends 
whispered about a deadly poison which had been 
mingled with this glass of water, in order to rid 
themselves of this powerful and dangerous oppo- 
nent. 

Mirabeau believed this ; and the increasing tor- 
por of his limbs, the pains which he felt in his 
bowels, appeared to him to be the sure indica- 
tions of poison given him by his enemies. 

The lion, who had been willing to crouch at the 
foot of the throne for the purpose of guarding it, 
was now nothing but a poor, sick man, whose 
voice was lost, and whose power was extinguished. 
For a season he sought to contend against the 
malady which was lurking in his body ; but one 
day, in the midst of a speech which he was 
making in behalf of the queen, he sank in a 
fainting-fit, and was carried unconsciously to 
his dwelling. After long efforts on the part of 
his physician, the celebrated Cabanis, Mirabeau 
opened his eyes. Consciousness was restored, 
but with it a fixed premonition of his approach- 
ing death. 

“ I am dying ! ” he said, softly. “ T am bearing 
in my heart the funeral crape of the monarchy. 
These raging partisans want to pluck it out, de- 
ride it, and fasten it to their own foreheads. And 
tliis compels them to break my heart, and this 
they have done ! ” * 

Yes, they had broken it — this great strong 
heart, in which the funeral crape of monarchy lay. 
At first the physician and his friends hoped that 
it might be possible to overcome his malady, but 
Mirabeau was not fiattered by any such hope ; he 
felt that the pains which were racking his body 
would end only with death. 

* Miraheau’s own words. — See “Mdmoires siir Mira- 
beau,” vol. iv., p. 296. 


After one especially painful and distressing 
night, Mirabeau had his physician Cabanis and 
his friend Count de la Marck summoned to his 
bed, and extended to them both his hands. “ My 
friends,” he said to them with gentle voice and 
with peaceful face, “ my friends, I am going to 
die to-day. When one has been brought to that 
pass, there is only one thing that remains to be done : 
to be perfumed, tastefully dressed, and surrounded 
with flowers, so as to fall agreeably into that last 
sleep from which there is no waking. So, call my 
servants ! I must be shaved, dressed, and nicely 
arrayed. The window must be opened, that the 
warm air may stream in, and then flowers must 
be brought. I want to die in the sunshine and 
flowers. ” ^ 

His friends did not venture to oppose his last 
wish. The gladiator wanted to make his last 
toilet, and be elaborately arrayed in order to fall 
in the arena of life as a hero falls, and even in 
death to excite the wonder and the applause of 
the public. 

All Paris was in this last scene the public of 
this gladiator ; all Paris had, in these last days of 
his battle for life, only one thought, “ How is it 
with Mirabeau ? Will he compel the dreadful 
enemy Death to retire from before him, or will he 
fall as the prey of Death ? ” This question was 
written on all faces, repeated in all houses and in 
all hearts. Every one wanted to receive an answer 
from that still house, with its closely-drawn cur- 
tains, where Mirabeau lived. All the streets which 
led thither were, during the last three days before 
his death, filled with a dense mass of men, and no 
carriage was permitted to drive through the neigh- • 
borhood, lest it should disturb Mirabeau. The 
theatres were closed, and, without any consultation 
together, the merchants shut their stores as they 
do on great days of national fasting or thanksgiv- 
ing. 

On the morning of the fourth day, before life 
had begun to move in the streets of Paris, and be- 
fore the houses were opened, a cry was heard in 
the great highways of the city, ringing up into all 

* Mirabeau’s words. — See “ Memoiros sur Mirabeau,’ 
vol. iv., p. 296_. 


144 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


the houses, and entering all the agitated hearts 
that heard it : “ Flowers, bring flowers ! Mira- 
beau wants flowers ! Bring roses and violets for 
Mirabeau ! Mirabeau wants to die amid flow- 
ers ! ” 

This cry awoke slumbering Paris the 2d of 
April, 1791, and, as it resounded through the 
streets, windows and doors opened, and hundreds, 
thousands of men hastened from all directions 
toward Mirabeau’s house, carrying nosegays, bou- 
quets, whole baskets of flowers. One seemed to 
be transferred from cool, frosty spring weather 
to the warm, fragrant days of summer ; all the 
greenhouses, all the chambers poured out their 
floral treasures to prepare one last summer day 
for the dying tribune of the people. His whole 
house was filled with flowers and with fragrance. 
The hall, the staircase, the antechamber, and the 
drawing-room were overflowing with flowers ; and 
there in the middle of the drawing-room lay Mira- 
beau upon a lounge, carefully dressed, shaved and 
powdered, as if for a royal festival. The most 
beautiful of the flowers, the fairest exotics sur- 
rounded his couch, and bent their variegated 
petals down to the pale, death-stricken gladiator, 
who still had power to summon a smile to his 
lips, and with one last look of affection to bid 
farewell to his weeping friends — farewell to the 
flowers and the sunlight ! 

On his lofty brow, on his smiling lips, there was 
written, after Death had claimed him, after the 
gladiator had fallen, “ The dying one greets you ! ” 

The day of his death was the day of his last 
triumph ; and the flowers that all Paris sent to 
him, were to Mirabeau the parting word of love 
and admiration! 

Four times daily the king had sent to inquire 
after Mirabeau’s welfare, and when at noon, on 
the 2d of April, Count de la Marck brought the 
tidings of his death, the king turned pale. “ Dis- 
aster is hovering over us,” he said, sadly, “ Death 
too arrays himself on the side of our enemies 1 ” 

Marie Antoinette was also very deeply moved 
by the tidings. “ He wanted to save us, and there- 
fore must die I The burden was too heavy, the 
pillar has broken under the weight ; the temple 


will plunge down and bury us beneath its ruins, if we 
do not hasten to save ourselves ! Mirabeau’s be- 
quest was his counsel to speedy and secret flight ! 
We must follow his advice, we must remove from 
Paris. May the spirit of Mirabeau enlighten the 
heart of the king, that he may be willing to do 
what is necessary, — that he may be willing to 
leave Paris ! ” 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 

All Paris was again in commotion, fear, and up- 
roar. The furies of the revolution, the market- 
women, went howding again through the streets on 
the 20th of June, 1791, uttering their horrid curses 
upon the king and the Austrian woman, and 
hurliiig their savage words and dirty songs 
against Madame Yeto, against la chienne d'Au- 
triche. 

Around the Tuileries stood in immense mass- 
es the corps of the National Guard, with grave 
and threatening mien, and with difficulty holding 
back the people, who were filling the whole 
broad square in front of the palace, and who 
could only with great effort be prevented from 
breaking through those strong cordons of guards 
who held both ends of the street leading to the 
Tuileries, and kept at least the middle of the way 
free and open. 

It was a way for the king, the queen, and the 
royal family, who were to reenter Paris that day. 
Lafayette had, at the order of the National As- 
sembly, gone with some regiments of the guard 
to Yarennes, to conduct the king back to the 
capital. Thousands upon thousands had hurried 
out after him in order to observe this return of 
the representatives of monarchy, and to take 
part in this funeral procession ! 

For it was a funeral of the monarchy which was 
celebrated that day ; and this great, heavy car- 
riage, surrounded by soldiers, and the ribald, 
mocking populace — this great carriage, which now 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


145 


drove along the streets leading to the Tuileries, 
amid the thunder of cannon, and the peals of 
bells from towers, was the funeral car of monarchy. 

The king, the queen, the royal children, the 
sister of the king, Madame Tourzel, and the two 
deputies whom the National Assembly had sent to 
Varennes to accompany the royal family, Petion 
and Barnave, were in this carriage. 

They had tried to follow the advice of the dy- 
ing Mirabeau, and to save themselves from the 
revolution. That was the offence of this king 
and this queen, who were now brought back in 
triumph to the Tuileries, the palace of kings, and 
from that time a royal prison. 

Tri-colored banners waved from all roofs and 
from all windows ; placards were displayed every- 
where, bearing in immense letters the words : 
“ Whoever applauds the king shall be scourged ; 
whoever insults him shall be hanged ! ” 

They had wished to escape, these unhappy 
ones, who are now brought back from Yarennes, 

( where they were identified and detained. Now 
they were returning, no longer the masters, but 
j the prisoners of the French nation ! The National 
I Assembly had passed a decree, whose first article 
i was ; “ The king is temporarily set aside from the 
[ functions of royalty;” and whose second and 
! third articles were, “ that so soon as the king and 
' his family shall be brought back to the Tuileries, 
j a provisional watch shall be set over him, as well 
{ as over the queen and the dauphin, which, under 
j the command of the general-in-chief of the Na- 
tional Guard of Paris, shall be responsible for 
! their safety and for their detention.” 

The king and the queen returned to Paris as 
I prisoners, and Lafayette was their jailer. The 
j master of France, the many-headed King of the 
j French nation, was the National Assembly. 

I Sad, dreadful days of humiliation, of resigna- 
tion, of perils and anxieties, now followed for the 
royal family, the prisoners of the Tuileries, who 
were watched day and night by spying eyes, and 
whose doors must remain open day and night, in 
I order that officers on guard might look without 
[ hinderanoe into the apartments in which the pris- 
I oners of the French nation lived. 


During the first week after the sad return, the 
spirit of the que^n seemed to be broken, her en- 
ergies to be impaired forever. She had no more 
hope, no more fear ; she threw out no new plans 
for escaping, she neither worked nor wrote. She 
only sat still and sad for hours, and before her 
eyes passed the dreadful pictures of the time just 
gone by, presenting themselves with dreadful 
vividness, and in the recollection anguishing her 
spirit. She recalled the excitement and anxiety 
of the day which preceded the flight. She saw 
herself, as with trembling hands she put on 
the garments of one of her waiting-maids, and 
then disguised the dauphin in girl’s clothes ; she 
heard the boy asking anew, with his pleasant 
smile: “Are we going to play theatre, mamma 
queen?” Then she saw herself on the street 
alone, waiting without any protection or company 
for the carriage which was to take her up, after 
taking up at another place the king and the two 
children. She recalled the drive .in the dark 
night, the heat in the close, heavy carriage, the 
dreadful alarm when suddenly, after a twelve 
hours’ drive, the carriage broke, and all dismount- 
ed to climb the hill to the village which lay before 
them, and where they had to wait till the carriage 
could be repaired. Then the journey on, the de- 
lay in Yarennes, the cry, “They are recognized.” 
Then the confusion, the march, the anguish of the 
hours following, and finally that last hour of hope 
when, in the poor chamber of the shopkeeper 
Sauce, his wife standing near the bed on which 
the little prince slept, she conjured his wife to 
save the king and find him a hiding-place. Then 
she heard again before her ears the woman’s hard 
voice answering her : “ Madame, it cannot be ; I 
love my husband, too, and I also have children, 
but my husband were lost if I saved yours.” 
Then she heard afresh the cries, the march ; saw 
the arrival of the Paris regiments and the depu- 
ties whom the National Assembly sent to conduct 
the royal refugees back to Paris. Then she re- 
called the drive back, crowded into the carriage 
with the deputies, and the ribald populace roaring 
around. As she thought of all these things, a 
shudder ran through the form of the unhappy 


10 


146 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


queen, and tears streamed unrestrainedly from 
her eyes. 

But gradually she gained her composure and 
spirit, and even the daily humiliation and trials 
which she encountered awakened in her the fire 
and defiance of her earlier days. 

The king and the queen were, after their return 
from Yarennes, the prisoners of their own people, 
and the Tuileries formed the prison in which with 
never-sleeping cruelty the people watched their 
royal captives. 

The chiefs of the battalions constituting the 
National Guard took turns in sentry duty over the 
royal couple. They had received the rigid order 
to constantly watch the royal family, and not to 
leave them for a moment alone. Even the sleep- 
ing-room of the queen was not closed to the es- 
pionage of the guards ; the door to the drawing- 
room close by had always to be open, and in this 
drawing-room was the officer of the guard. Even 
in the night, while the queen lay in her bed, this 
door remained open, and the officer, sitting in an 
arm-chair directly opposite to the door, kept his 
eyes directed to the bed in which the queen sought 
to sleep, and wrestled with the pains and fear 
which she was too proud to show to her persecu- 
tors. The queen had stooped to make but one 
request ; she had asked that at least in the morn- 
ing, when she arose and dressed, she might close 
the doors of her sleeping-room, and they had 
been magnanimous enough to comply with her 
wish.* 

But Queen Marie Antoinette had met all these 
humiliations, these disenchantments, and trials, 
full of hope of a change in her fortune. Her 
proud soul was still unbroken, her belief in the 
victory of monarchy under the favor of God ani- 
mated her heart with a last ray of hope, and sus- 
Kiined her amid all her misfortune. She still 
would contend with her enemies for the love of 
this people, of whom she hoped that, led astray 
by Jacobins and agitators, they would at last con- 
fess their error, respect the voice of their king 
and queen, and return to love and regretfulness. 

♦ “ Histoire de Marie Antoinette,” par Edmond et Jules 
de Goncourt, p. 261. 


And Marie Antoinette would sustain herself in 
view of the great day when the people’s love 
should be given back ; she would seek to bring 
that day back, and reconcile the people to the 
throne. On this account she w'ould show the peo- 
ple that she cherished no fear of them ; that she 
would intrust herself with perfect confidence to 
them, and greet them with her smiles and all the 
favor of former days. She would make one 
more attempt to regain her old popularity, and 
reawaken in their cold hearts the love which the 
people had once displayed to her by their loud 
acclamations. She found power in herself to let 
her tears flow, not visibly, but within her heart ; 
to disguise with her smile the pain of her soul, 
and so she resolved to wear a cheerful and pleas- 
ant face, and appear again publicly in the theatre, 
as well as in open carriage-drives through the 
city. 

They were then giving in the great opera-house 
Gluck’s “Alceste,” the favorite opera of the 
queen — the opera in which a few years before 
she had received so splendid a triumph ; in which 
the public loudly encored, ^^Chantons^ celebrom 
notre reine I ” which the choir had sung upon the 
stage, and, standing with faces turned toward the 
royal box, had mingled their voices with those of 
the singers, and repeated in a general chorqs, 

“ Chantons^ ceUhrons notre reine / ” 

“ I will try whether the public remembers that 
evening,” said Marie Antoinette, with a faint smile, 
to Mademoiselle de Bugois, the only lady who had 
been permitted to remain with her; “I will go 
this evening to the opera ; the public shall at least 
see that I intrust myself with confidence to it, 
and that I have not changed, however much may 
have been changed around.” ' 

Mademoiselle de Bugois looked with deep sad- 
ness at the pale face of the queen, that would 
show the public that she had not altered, and ' 
upon which, once so fair and briglit, grief had ’ 
recorded its ineradicable characters, and almost 
extinguished its old beauty. Deeply moved, the 
waiting-lady turned away in order not to let the 
tears be seen which, against her will, ‘ streamed 
from her eyes. ' 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


147 


But Marie Antoinette had seen them neverthe- 
less. With a sad smile she laid her hand upon 
the shoulder of the lady-in-waiting. “ Ah ! ” said 
she, mildly, “do not conceal your tears. You 
1 are much happier than I, for you can shed tears ; 
mine have been flowing almost two years in 
silence, and I have had to swallow them ! * 
i “ But I will not weep this evening,” she con- 
I tinned, “ I will meet these Parisians at least in 
composure. Yes, I will do more, I will try to 
i smile to them. They hate me now, but perhaps 
they will remember then that once they truly 
loved me. There is a trace of magnanimity in 
i the people, and my confidence will perhaps touch 
it.. Be quick, and make my toilet. I will be 
fair to-day. I will adorn myself for the Parisians. 
They will not be my enemies alone who will be at 
the theatre; some of my friends will be there, 
and they at least will be glad to see me. Quick, 
mademoiselle, let us begin my toilet.” 

And with a liveliness and a zeal which, in her 
i threatened situation, had something touching in it, 
Marie Antoinette arrayed herself for the public, 
i for the good Parisians. 

The news that the queen was to appear that 
evening at the theatre had quickly run through all 
Paris ; the officer on duty told it at his relief to 
some of the guards, they to those whom they 
met, and it spread like wildfire. It was therefore 
i very natural that, long before the curtain was 
I , raised, the great opera-house was completely 
I filled, parquette, boxes, and parterre, with a pas- 
I sionately-excited throng. The friends of the 

I 

; queen went in order to give her a long-looked-for 
triumph ; her enemies — and these the poor queen 
, had in overwhelming numbers — ^to fling their 
I hate, their malice, their scorn, into the face of 
I Marie Antoinette. 

i And enemies of the queen had taken places for 
i themselves in every part of the great house. They 

I 

I even sat in the boxes of the first rank, on those 
j velvet-cushioned chairs which had formerly been 
I occupied exclusively by the enthusiastic admirers 
I of the court, the ladies and gentlemen of the aris- 

* Marie Antoinette’s own words. — See Gon court, p. 
264 . 


tocracy. But now the aristocracy did not dare 
to sit there. The most of them, friends of the 
queen, had fled, giving way before her enemies 
and persecutors ; and in the boxes where 
they once sat, now were the chief members of 
the National Assembly, together with the lead- 
ing orators of the clubs, and the societies of Jac- 
obins. 

To the box above, where the people had once 
been accustomed to see Princess Lamballe, the 
eyes of the public were directed again and again. 
Marie Antoinette had been compelled to send 
away this last of her friends to London, to have a 
conference with Pitt. Instead of the fair locks 
of the princess, was now to be seen the head of 
a man, who, resting both arms on the velvet lin- 
ing of the box, was gazing down with malicious 
looks into the surging masses of the parterre. 
This man was Marat, once the veterinary of the 
Count d’ Artois, now the greatest and most for- 
midable orator of the wild Jacobins. 

He too had come to see the hated she-wolf, as he 
had lately called the queen in his “ !Ami du Pm- 
jnZe,” and, to prepare for her a public insult, sat 
drunk with vanity in the splendid box of the Prin- 
cess Lamballe ; his friends and confidants were in 
the theatre, among them Santerre the brewer, and 
Simon the cobbler, often looking up at Marat, 
waiting for the promised motion which should be 
his signal for the great demonstration. 

At length the time arrived for the opera to be- 
gin, and, although the queen had not come, the di- 
rector of the orchestra did not venture to detain 
the audience even for a few minutes. He went 
to his place, took his baton, and gave the sign. 
The overture began, and all was silent, in par- 
quette and parterre, as well as in the boxes. 
Every one seemed to be listening only to the mu- 
sic, equally full of sweetness and majesty — only to 
have ears for the noble rhythm with which Gluck 
begins his “ Alceste.” 

Suddenly there arose a dull, suppressed sound 
in parquette, parterre, and boxes, and all heads 
which had before been directed toward the stage, 
were now turned backward toward the great royal 
box. No one paid any more attention to the mu- 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


U8 

sic, no one noticed that the overture was ended 
and that the curtain was raised. 

Amid the blast of trumpets, the noise of vio- 
lins and clarionets, the public had heard the light 
noise of the opening doors, had noticed the en- 
trance of the officers, and this sound had made 
the Parisians forget even their much-loved music. 

There now appeared in the open box-door a 
woman’s form. 

The queen, followed by Mademoiselle de Bu- 
gois, advanced slowly through the great box to 
the very front. All eyes were directed to her, all 
looks searched her pale, noble face. 

Marie Antoinette felt this, and a smile flitted 
over her face like the evening glow of a summer’s 
day. With this smile and a deep blush Marie 
Antoinette bowed and saluted the public. 

A loud, unbounded cry of applause resounded 
through the vast room. In the parquette and in 
the boxes hundreds of spectators arose and hailed 
the queen with a loud, pealing “ Vive la reine / ” 
and clapped their hands like pleased children, and 
looked up to the queen with joyful, beaming 
countenances. 

“ Oh, my faith has not deceived ! ” whispered 
Marie Antoinette into the ear of her companion. 

The good Parisians love me still ; they, like me, 
remember past times, and the old loyalty is awak- 
ing in them.” 

And again she bowed her thanks right and left, 
and again the house broke out into loud applause. 

A single, angry glance of Marat’s little eyes, 
peering out from beneath the bushy brows, met 
the queen. 

“ Only wait,” said Marat, rising from his seat 
and directing his glances at the parterre. There 
stood the giant Santerre, and not far from him 
Simon the cobbler, in the midst of a crowd of 
savage-looking, defiant fellows, who all looked at 
their leaders, while they, Santerre and Simon, di- 
rected their eyes up to the box of Marat. 

The glance of the chief met that of his two 
friends. A scornful, savage expression swept 
over Marat’s ash-colored, dirty face, and he nod- 
ded lightly to his allies. Santerre and Simon re- 
turned the nod, and they, turning to their com- 


panions, gave the signal by raising the right 
hand. 

Suddenly the applause was overborne by loud 
whistling and shouting, derisive laughter, and 
wild curses. 

“ The civil war has begun ! ” cried Marat, rub- 
bing his hands together with delight. 

The royalists continued to applaud and to 
shout, “ Vive la reine / ” Their opponents tried 
to silence them by their hisses and whistling. 
Marat’s face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. 
He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and 
nodded smilingly to the men who sat there. 

At once they began to cry, “ The chorus, the 
chorus, let them sing ‘ Chantons^ celebrons noirt 
reine 1 ’ ” 

“ Very well,” said Marat. ‘‘I am a good 
royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry.” 

“ Sing, sing ! ” shouted the men to the perform- 
ers on the stage — “ sing the chorus, ‘ Chantons^ 
celebrons notre reine / ’ ” 

And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was 
the cry, “ Sing the chorus, ‘ Chantons^ celebrons 
noire reine ! ’ ” 

“ No,” roared Santerre, “no, they shall not sing 
that ! ” 

“ No,” cried Simon, “ we will not hear the mon- 
key-song ! ” 

And hundreds of men in the parterre and the 
upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, “No, we 
will not hear the monkey-song ! ” 

“ The thing works well ! ” said Marat. “ I hold 
my people by a thread, and make them gesticu- 
late and spring up and down, like the concealed 
man in a Punch and Judy show.” 

The noise went on ; the royalists would not 
cease their applause and their calls for the cho- 
rus, “ Chanions, celebrons notre reine / ” The 
enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and 
shouting, “We do not want to hear any thing 
about the queen ; we will not hear the monkey- 
song ! ” 

“ Oh, would I had never come here ! ” whis- 
pered the queen, with tearM eyes, as she sank 
back in her arm-chair, and hid her face in her 
handkerchief. 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


149 


Peihaps because the real royalists saw the agi- 
tation of the queen, and out of compassion for 
her were willing to give up the controversy — per- 
i haps Marat had given a sign to the false royalists 
that they had had enough of shoutiug and con- 
fusion ; at all events the cry “ Vive la reine ” 
and the call for the chorus died away suddenly, 
I the applause ceased, and as the enemies of the 
' queen had now no opposition to encounter, nothing 
was left to them but to be silent too. 

I “ The first little skirmish is over ! ” said Marat, 
resting his bristly head on the back of his velvet 
arm-chair. “ Now we will listen to the music a 
little, and look at the pretty theatre girls.” 

And in fact the opera had now begun ; the di- 
rector of the orchestra had taken advantage of 
the return of quiet to give a sign to the singers 
I on the stage to begin at once, and with fortunate 
I presence of mind his command was obeyed. 

' The public, wearied it may be with the shout- 
i ing and noise, remained silent, and seemed to 
1 give its attention exclusively to the stage, the de- 
j velopment of the plot, and the noble music. 

I Marie Antoinette breathed freely again ; her 
I pale cheeks began to have color once more, her 
‘ eyes were again bright, and she seemed transported 
; beyond the sore battles and dreadful discords of 
her life; she listened respectfully to the sweet 
melodies, and the grand harmonies of the teacher 
i of her youth, the great Gluck. Leaning back in 
her arm-chair, she allowed the music to flow into 
I ’ 

I her soul, and the recollection of past days awoke 

! afresh in her mind. She dreamed of the days of 

I her childhood : she saw herself again in Schon- 
I brunn; she saw her teacher GWick enter the blue 
music-room, in which she with her sisters used to 
wait for him ; she saw the glowing countenance 
of her mother, the great Maria Theresa, entering 
her room, in order to give Gluck a proof of her 

s 

high regard, and to announce to him herself that 
Marie Antoinette had betrothed herself to the 
Dauphin of France, and that she would soon bid 
her teacher farewell, in order to enter upon her 
new and brilliant career. 

A low hum in the theatre awakened the queen 
from her reveries; she raised herself up and 


leaned forward, to see what was going on. Her 
glance, which was directed to the stage, fell upon 
the singer Clairval, who was just then beginning 
to give, with his wonderfully full and flexible 
voice, the great aria in which the friend comes 
to console the grief-burdened, weeping Queen 
Alceste, and to dry her tears by assuring her of 
the love of her faithful adherents. 

Clairval had advanced in the aria to that cele- 
brated passage which had given to Marie Antoi- 
nette a half year before her last great triumph. 
It ran : 

“ Eeine infortun^e, ahl qne ton coeur 
Ne soit plus navr6 de douleur ! 

II vous reste encore des amis I ” 

But scarcely had Clairval begun the first strophe 
when the thundering voice of Santerre called, 
“None of that, we will not hear the air ! ” 

“ No, we will not hear the air ! ” shouted hun- 
dreds and hundreds of voices. 

“Poor Gluck,” whispered Marie Antoinette, 
with tears in her eyes, “ because they hate me, 
they will not even hear your music ! ” 

“ Sing it, sing it ! ” shouted hundreds and hun- 
dreds of voices from all parts of the house. 

“ No, do not sing it ! ” roared the others ; “ we 
will not hear the air.” 

And suddenly, above the cries of the contest- 
ants, rose a loud, yelling voice : 

“ I forbid the singer Clairval ever again sing- 
ing this air. I forbid it in the name of the peo- 
ple ! ” 

It was Marat who spoke these words. Stand- 
ing on the arm-chair of the Princess de Lamballe, 
and raising his long arms, and directing them 
threateningly toward the stage, he turned his face, 
aglow with hate and evil, toward the queen. 

Marie Antoinette, who had turned her head in 
alarm in the direction whence the voice proceed- 
ed, met with her searching looks the eyes of Ma- 
rat, which were fixed upon her with an expression 
equally stern and contemptuous. 

She shrank back, and, as if in deadly pain, put 
her hand to her heart. 

“ 0 God ! ” she whispered to herself, “ that is 
no man, that is an infernal demon, who has risen 


150 


/ MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


there to take the place of my dear, sweet Lam- 
balle. Ah, the good spirit is gone, and the de- 
mon takes its place — the demon which will destroy 
us all ! ” 

“ Long live Marat ! ” roared Santerre, and his 
comrades. “ Long live Marat, the great friend of 
the people, the true patriot ! ” 

Marat bowed on all sides, stepped down from 
the easy-chair, and seated himself comfortably in 
it. 

Clairval had stopped in the air ; pale, confused, 
and terrified, he had withdrawn, and the director 
whispered to the orchestra and the singers to be- 
gin the next number. 

The opera went on, and the public again ap- 
peared to give itself during some scenes to the 
enjoyment of the music. But soon this short 
quiet was to be disturbed again. One of the sing- 
ers, Madame Dugazont, a zealous royalist, wanted 
to give the queen a little triumph, and show her 
that, although Clairval had been silenced, the 
love and veneration of Dugazont were still alive 
and ready to display themselves. 

Singing as the attendant of Alceste, Dugazont 
had these words to give in her part : “ Ah / comme 
faime la mVie, comme faime ma maUresse ! ” 

She advanced close to the footlights, and turn- 
ing her looks toward the royal box, and bowing 
low, sang the words : “ Comme faime la reine^ 
comme faime ma maiiresse 

And now, as if this had been the battle-cry of a 
new contest, a fearful din, a raging torrent of 
sound began through the whole house. At first 
it was a mixed and confused mass of cries, roars, 
hisses, and applause. Now and then single voices 
could be heard above the horrid chaos of sounds. 
“We want no queen!” shouted some. “We 
want no mistress ! ” roared others ; and mingled 
with those was the contrary cry, “ Long live the 
queen 1 Long live our mistress ! ” 

“ Hi 1 ” said Marat, full of delight, twisting his 
bony form up into all kinds of knots — “ hi ! this 
is the way they shout in hell. Satan himself 
would like this ! ” 

More and more horrible, more and more wild 
became the cries of the rival partisans. Already 


imbittered and exasperated faces were confront- 
ing each other, and here and there clinched fists 
were seen, threatening to bring a shouting neigh- 
bor to silence by the use of violence. 

The queen, trembling in every limb, had let her 
head fall powerlessly on her breast, in order that 
no one might see the tears which ran from her 
eyes over her death-like cheeks. 

“ 0 God,” whispered she, “ we are lost, hope- 
lessly lost, for not merely our enemies injure us, 
and bring us into danger, but our friends still 
more. Why must that woman turn to me and 
direct her words to me ? She wanted to give me 
a triumph, and yet she has brought me a new hu- 
miliation. Suddenly she shrank back and raised 
her head. She had caught the first tones of that 
sharp, mocking voice, which had already pierced 
her heart, the voice of that evil demon who now 
occupied the place of the good Princess Lamballe. 

The voice cried: “The people of Paris are 
right. We want no queen! And more than all 
other things, no mistress ! Only slaves acknowl- 
edge masters over them. If the Dugazont ven- 
tures to sing again, ‘ I love my queen, I love my 
mistress,’ she will be punished as slaves are pun- 
ished — that is, she will be flogged ! ” 

“ Bravo, Marat, bravo ! ” roared Santerre, with 
his savage rabble. “ Bravo, Marat, bravo ! ” 
cried his friends in the boxes ; “ she shall be 
flogged ! ” 

Marat bowed on all sides, and turned his eyes, 
gleaming with scorn and hatred, toward the royal 
box, and menaced it with his clinched fists. 

“ But not alone shall the singer be flogged,” 
cried he, with a voice louder and sharper than 
before — “ no, not alone shall the singer be flogged, 
but greater punishment have they deserved who 
urge on to such deeds. If the Austrian woman 
comes here again to turn the heads of sympa- 
thizing souls with her martyr looks, if she un- 
dertakes again to move us with her tears and 
her face, we will serve her as she deserves, wm 
will go whip in hand into her box ! ” * 

The queen rose from her chair like an exasper- 


* Goncourt’s “ Hlstoire de Marie Antoinette,’’ p. 265. 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


151 


ated lioness, and advanced to the front of the 
( box. Standing erect, with flaming looks of anger, 
with cheeks like purple, she confronted them 
I there — the true heir of the Caesars, the coura- 
■ geous daughter of Maria Theresa — and had already 
opened her lips to speak and overwhelm the trai- 
tor with her wrath, when another voice was heard 
giving answer to Marat. 

It cried : “ Be silent, Marat, be silent. Who- 
ever dares to insult a woman, be she queen or 
beggar, dishonors himself, his mother, his wife, 
and his daughter. I caU on you all, I call on the 
whole public, to take the part of a defenceless 
woman, whom Marat ventures to mortally insult. 

, You all have mothers and wives ; you may, perhaps, 
some day have daughters. Defend the honor of 
woman ! Do not permit it to be degraded in 
: your presence. Marat has insulted a woman ; we 
I owe her satisfaction for it. Join with me in the 

[ cry, ‘ Long live the queen ! Long live Marie An- 
toinette ! ’ ” 

And the public, carried away with the enthu- 
siasm of this young, handsome man, who had 
risen in his box, and whose slender, proud figure 
towered above all — the public broke into one 
united stirring cry : “ Long live the queen ! Long 
I live Marie Antoinette ! ” 

Marat, trembling with rage, his countenance 
I suffused with a livid paleness, sank back in his 
I chair. 

; “ I knew very well that Barnave was a traitor,” 

1 he whispered. “I shall remember this moment, 
and Barnave shall one day atone for it with his 
head.” 

“ Barnave, it is Barnave,” whispered the queen 
to herself. “ He has rescued me from great dan- 
ger, for I was on the point of being carried away 
by my wrath, and answering the monster there 
as he deserves.” 

“ Long live the queen ! Long live Marie An- 
toinette ! ” shouted the public. 

Marie Antoinette bowed and greeted the audi- 
ence on all sides with a sad smile, but not one 
look did she cast to the box where Barnave sat, 
with not one smile did she thank him for the ser- 
vice he had done her. For the queen knew well 


that her favor brought misfortune to those who 
shared it ; that he on whom she bestowed a smile 
was the object of the people’s suspicion. 

The public continued to shout her name, but 
the queen felt herself exhausted, and drawing 
back from the front of the box, she beckoned to 
her companion. “ Come,” she whispered, “ let us 
go while the public are calling ‘ Long live Marie 
Antoinette ! ’ Who knows whether they will not 
be shouting in another minute, ‘Away with the 
queen ! we want no queen ! ’ It pains my ear 
so to hear that, so let us go.” 

And while the public were yet crying, Marie An- 
toinette left the box and passed out into the cor- 
ridor, followed by Mademoiselle Bugois and the 
two officers in attendance. 

But the corridor which the queen had to pass, 
the staircase which she had to descend in order to 
reach her carriage, were both occupied by a dense 
throng. With the swiftness of the wind the news 
had spread through Paris that the queen was go- 
ing to visit the opera that evening, and that her 
visit would not take place without witnessing 
some extraordinary outbreak. 

The royalists had hastened thither, to salute the 
queen, and at least to see her on the way. The 
curious, the idle, and the hostile-minded had 
come to see what should take place, and to shout 
as the majority might shout. The great opera- 
house had therefore not accommodated half who 
wanted to be present, and all those who had 
been refused admittance had taken their station 
on the stairway and the corridor, or before the 
main entrance. And it was natural that those 
who stood before the door should, by their merely 
being there, excite the curiosity of passers-by, so 
that these, too, stood still, to see what was go- 
ing on, and all pressed forward to the staircase 
to see every thing and to hear every thing. 

But the civil war which was raging within the 
theatre had given rise to battles outside as well ; 
the same cries which had resounded within, 
pealed along the path of the queen. She could 
only advance slowly ; closer and closer thronged 
the crowd, louder and louder roared around Marie 
Antoinette the various battle-cries of the parties. 


152 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ Long live the queen ! ” “ Long live the Na- 

tional Assembly ! Down with the queen ! ” 

Marie Antoinette appeared to hear neither the 
one nor the other of these cries. With proudly 
erected head, and calm, grave looks, she walked 
forward, untroubled about the crowd, which the 
National Guards before her could only break 
through by a recourse to threats and violence, in 
order to make a passage for the queen. 

At last the difficult task was done ; at last she 
had reached her carriage, and could rest upon its 
cushions, and, unobserved by spying looks, could 
give way to her grief and her tears. But alas ! 
this consolation continued only for a short time. 
The carriage soon stopped ; the Tuileries, that sad, 
silent prison of the royal family, was soon reached, 
and Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and 
compelled herself to appear calm. 

“Do not weep more, Bugois,” she whispered. 
“We will not give our enemies the triumph of 
seeing that they have forced tears from us. Try 
to be cheerful, and tell no one of the insults of 
this evening.” 

The carriage door was opened, the queen dis- 
mounted, and, surrounded by National Guards and 
officers, returned to her apartments. 

No one bade her welcome, no one received her 
as becomes a queen. A few of the servants only 
stood in the outer room, but Marie Antoinette had 
no looks for them. She had been compelled as a 
constitutional queen ought, to dismiss her own 
tried and faithful servants; her household had 
been reorganized, and she knew very well that 
these new menials were her enemies, and served 
as spies for the National Assembly. The queen 
therefore passed them without greeting, and en- 
tered her sitting-room. 

But even here she was not alone ; the door of 
the anteroom was open, and there sat the officer 
of the National Guard, whose duty of the day it 
was to watch her. 

Marie Antoinette had no longer the right of be- 
ing alone with her grief, no longer the right of 
being alone with her husband. The little corridor 
which ran from the apartments of the queen to 
those of the king, was always closed and guarded. 


When the king came to visit his wife, the guard 
came too and remained, hearing every word and 
standing at the door till the king retired. In like 
manner, both entrances to the apartments of the 
queen were always watched ; for before the one 
sat an officer appointed by the National Assembly, 
and before the other a member of the National 
Guard stood as sentry. 

With a deep sigh the queen entered her sleep- 
ing-room. The officer sat before the open door 
of the adjacent room, and looked sternly and 
coldly in. For an instant an expression of anger 
flitted over the face of the queen, and her lips 
quivered as though she wanted to speak a hasty 
word. But she suppressed it, and withdrew be- 
hind the great screen, in order to be disrobed by 
her two waiting-maids and be arrayed in her 
night-dress. 

Then she dismissed the maids, and coming out 
from behind the screen, she said, loudly enough 
to be heard by the officer : “ I am weary, I will 
sleep.” 

At once he arose, and turning to the two 
guards, who stood at the door of the anteroom, 
said : 

“ The queen is retiring, and the watch in the 
black corridor can withdraw. The National As- 
sembly has given command to lighten the service 
of the National Guard, by withdrawing as much 
of the force as possible. As long as the queen 
is lying in bed, two eyes are enough to watch 
her, and they shall watch her well ! ” 

The soldiers left the anteroom, and the officer 
returned to the entrance of the sleeping-room. 
He did not, however, sit down in the easy-chair 
before the door, but walked directly into the 
chamber of the queen. 

Marie Antoinette trembled and reached out her 
hand for the bell which stood by her on the 
table. 

“ Be still, for God’s’ sake, be still ! ” whispered 
the officer. “ Make no noise, your majesty. Look 
at my face.” And, kneeling before the queen, he 
raised his head and looked at her with an expres- 
sion almost of supplication. “I am Toulan,” he 
whispered, “the faithful servant of my queen. 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


153 


Will your majesty have the goodness to recall 
me ? Here is a letter from my patroness, Mad- 
ame de Campan, who speaks well for me. Will 
, your majesty read it ? ” 

The queen ran over the paper quickly and 
turned with a gentle smile to the officer, who 
was still kneeling before her, and who, in all her 
j humiliation and misfortune, still paid her the 
! homage due to majesty. 

Stand up, sir,” she said, mildly. “ The throne 
lies in dust, and ray crown is so sadly broken, 
that it is no longer worth the trouble to kneel be- 
j fore it.” 

1 “ Madame, I see two crowns upon your noble 

; head,” whispered Toulan — “the crown of the 
queen, and the crown of misfortune. To these 
two crowns I dedicate my service and my fidelity, 
and for them I am prepared to die. It is true, I 
I can do but little for your majesty, but that little 
shall be faithfully done. Thanks to my bitter 
hatred of royalty, and my rampant Jacobinism, I 
} have carried matters so far, that I have been put 
j upon the list of officers to keep watch, and, there- 
:| . fore, once every week I shall keep guard before 
I , your majesty’s sleeping-room.” 

“ And will you do me the favor to so put your 
I chair that I shall not see you — that during the 
f night I may not always have the feeling of be- 
1 ing watched ? ” asked the queen, in supplicant 
j tones. 

, “ No, your majesty,” said Toulan, moved. “ I 

! will remain in my chair, but your majesty will 
j prefer, perhaps, to turn the night into day, and 
j remain up ; as during my nights you will not be 
' disturbed.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” asked Marie 
Antoinette, joyfully. 

“I mean, that, as during the day your majesty 
can never speak with the king without witnesses, 
•we must call the night to our assistance, if you 
wish to speak confidentially to his majesty. Your 
majesty has heard, that during the night the 
watch is withdrawn from the corridor, and your 
majesty is free to leave your room and go to the 
chamber of the king.” 

A flash of joy passed over the countenance of 


the queen. “ I thank you, sir — I thank you to- 
day as a wife; perhaps the day may come when I 
can thank you as a queen ; I accept your mag- 
nanimous kindness. Yes, I will turn the night 
into day, and, thanks to you, I shall be able to 
spend several hours undisturbed with my husband 
and my children. And do you say that you shall 
be here quite often ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, I shall be here once every 
week at your majesty’s order.” 

“ Oh ! I have lost the habit of ordering,” said 
Marie Antoinette, with a pained look. “ You see 
that the Queen of France is powerless, but she is 
not wholly unfortunate, for she has friends still. 
You belong to these friends, sir ; and that we may 
both retain the memory of this day, I will always 
call you my faithful one.” 

No, the queen is not wholly unfortunate ; she 
has friends who are ready, with her, to suffer; 
with her, if it must be, to die. The Polignacs are 
gone, but Princess Lamballe, whom the queen 
had sent to London, to negotiate with Pitt, has 
returned, in spite of the warnings and pleadings 
of the queen. Marie Antoinette, when she learned 
that the princess was on the point of leaving Eng- 
land, had written to her : “ Do not come back at 
a moment so critical. You would have to weep 
too much for us. I feel deeply, believe me, how 
good you are, and what a true friend you are. 
But, with all my love, I enjoin you not to come 
here. Believe me, my tender friendship for you 
will cease only with death.” 

The warning of her royal friend had, mean- 
while, not restrained Princess Lamballe from 
doing what friendship commanded. She had re- 
turned to France, and Marie Antoinette had, at 
least, the comfort of having a tender friend at her 
side. 

No, the queen was not wholly unfortunate. 
Besides this friend, she had her children, too — her 
sweet, blooming little daughter, and the dauphin, 
the pride and joy of her heart. 

The dauphin had no suspicion of the woes and 
misfortunes which were threatening them. Like 
flowers that grow luxuriantly and blossom upon 
graves, so grew and blossomed this beautiful boy 


154 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


in the Tuileries, which was nothing more than 
the grave of the old kingly glory. 

But the dauphin was like sunshine in this dark, 
sad palace, and Marie Antoinette’s countenance 
lightened when her eye fell upon her son, looking 
up to her with his tender, beaming face. From 
the fresh, merry smile of her darling, she herself 
learned to smile again and be happy. 

Gradually, after the first rage of the people was 
appeased, the chains with which she was bound 
were relaxed. The royal family was at least per- 
mitted to leave the close, hot rooms, and go down 
into the gardens, although still watched and ac- 
companied by the National Guard. They were 
permitted to close the doors of their rooms 
again, althfjugh armed sentries still stood before 
them. 

There were even some weeks and months in 
this year I'ZOl, when it appeared as if the exas- 
perated spirits would be pacified, and the throne 
be reestablished with a portion of its old dignity. 
The king had, in a certain manner, received for- 
giveness from the National Assembly, while ac- 
cepting the constitution and swearing — ^^as indeed 
he could but swear, all power having been taken 
from him, and he being a mere lay-figure — that 
would control all his actions, and govern accord- 
hag to the expressed will of the National Assem- 
bly. 

But the king, in order to make peace with his 
people, had even made this sacrifice, and accepted 
the constitution. The people seemed grateful to 
him for this, and appeared to be willing to return 
to more friendly relations. The queen was no 
longer insulted with contemptuous cries when she 
appeared in the garden of the Tuileries, or in the 
Bois de Boulogne, and it even began to be the 
fashion to speak about the dauphin as a miracle 
of loveliness and beauty, and to go to the Tuile- 
ries to see him working in his garden. 

This garden of the dauphin was in the imme- 
diate neighborhood of the palace, at the end of 
the terrace on the river-side ; it was surrounded 
with a high wire fence, and close by stood the 
little pavilion where dwelt Abbe Davout, the 
teacher of the dauphin. The dauphin had had in 


Versailles a little garden of his own, which he 
himself worked, planted, and digged, and from 
whose flowers he picked a bouquet every morn- 
ing, to bring it with beaming countenance to his 
mamma queen. 

For this painfully-missed garden of Versailles, 
the little garden on the terrace had to compen- 
sate. The child was delighted with it; and every 
morning, when his study-hours were over, the 
dauphin hastened to his little parterre^ to dig and 
to water his flowers. The garden has, since that 
day, much changed ; it is enlarged, laid out on a 
different plan, and surrounded with a higher fence, 
but it still remains the garden of the Dauphin 
Louis Charles, the same garden that Napoleon 
subsequently gave to the little King of' Rome^; 
the same that Charles X. gave to the Duke de 
Bordeaux, and that Louis Philippe gave to the 
Count de Paris. How many recollections cluster 
around this little bit of earth, which has always 
been prematurely left by its young possessors ! 
One died in prison scarcely ten years old ; another, 
hurried away by the tempest, still younger, into a 
foreign land, only lived to hear the name of his 
father, and see his dagger before he died. The 
third and fourth were hurled out by the storm- 
wind like the first two, and still wear the mantle 
of exile in Austria and England. And many as 
are the tears with which these children regard 
their own fate, there must be many which they 
must bestow upon the fate of their fathers. One 
died upon the scaffold, another from the knife of 
an assassin, a third from a fall upon the pave- 
ment of a highway; and the last, the greatest of 
them all, was hound, like Prometheus, to a rock, 
and fed on bitter recollections till he met his 
death. 

This little garden, on the river-side terrace of 
the Tuileries park, which has come to have a 
world-wide interest, was then the Eldorado of the 
little Dauphin of France ; and to see him behind 
the fence was the delight of the Parisians who 
used to visit there, and long for the moment when 
the glance of his blue eye fell upon them, and for 
some days and months had again become enthu- 
siastic royalists. 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


155 


When the prince went into his little garden, he 
was usually accompanied by a detachment of 
the National Guard, who were on duty in the 
Tuileries ; and the dauphin, who was now receiving 
instruction in the use of weapons, generally wore 
himself the uniform of a member of the National 
Guard. The Parisians were delighted with this 
little guard of six years. His picture hung in all 
stores, it was painted on fans and rings, and it 
was the fashion, among the most elegant ladies 
of the Faubourg St. Germain, and among the 
market-women as well, to decorate themselves 
with the likeness of the dauphin. How his brow 
beamed, how his eye brightened, when, accompa- 
nied by his escort, of which he was proud, he 
entered his garden ! When the retinue was not 
large, the prince took his place in the ranks. One 
day, when all the National Guards on duty were 
very desirous of accompanying him, several of 
them were compelled to stand outside of the gar- 
den. “Pardon me, gentlemen,-’ said th<? dau- 
phin ; “ it is a great pity that my garden is so 
small that it deprives me of the pleasure of re- 
ceiving you all.” Then he hastened to give flow- 
ers to every one who was near the fence, and re- 
ceived their thanks with great pleasure. 

The enthusiasm for the dauphin was so great, 
that the boys of Paris envied their elders the 
honor of being in bis service, and longed to be- 
come soldiers, that they might be in his retinue. 
There was, in fact, a regiment of boys formed, 
which took the name of the Dauphin’s Regiment. 
The citizens of Paris were anxious to enroll the 
names of their sons in the lists of this regiment, 
and to pay the expenses of an equipment. And 
when this miniature regiment was formed, with 
the king’s permission, it marched to the Tuileries, 
in order to parade before the dauphin. The 
prince was delighted with the little regiment, 
and invited its officers to visit his garden, that 
they might see his flowers, his finest treasures. 
“ Would you do us the pleasure to be the colonel 
of our regiment ? ” one of the officers asked the 
dauphin. 

“ Oh ! certainly,” he answered. 

“ Then you must give up getting flowers and 


bouquets for your mamma ! ” said one of the 
boys. 

“ Oh ! ” answered the dauphin, with a smile, 
“that will not hinder my taking care of my flow- 
ers. Many of these gentlemen have little gardens, 
too, as they have told me. Very well, they can 
follow the example of their colonel, and love the 
queen, and then mamma will receive whole regi- 
ments of flowers every day.” 

The majority of this regiment consisted, at the 
outset, of children of the highest ranks of society, 
and it was therefore natural that they, practised 
in the most finished courtesy, should pay some 
deference to their young colonel. But they were 
expressly forbidden showing any thing of this feel- 
ing toward their comrade. “ For,” said the king, 
“ I want him to have companions who will stimu- 
late his ambition ; but I do not want him to have 
flatterers, who shall lead him to live to himself 
alone.” Soon the number of little soldiers in- 
creased, for every family /onged for the honor of 
having its sons in the regiment of the royal dau- 
phin. The people used always to throng in great 
masses when this regiment went through its exer- 
cises in the Place de la Carrousel. It was a min- 
iature representation of the French guards, with 
their three-cornered hats and white jackets ; and 
nothing could be more charming than this regi- 
ment of blooming boys in their tasteful uniforms, 
and their little chief, the dauphin, looking at his 
regiment with beaming eyes and smiling lips. 

The enthusiasm of the little soldiers of the 
Royal Dauphin Regiment for their colonel was so 
great, that they longed to give him a proof of 
their love. One day the officers of the regiment 
came into the Tuileries and begged the king’s per- 
mission to make a present to the dauphin, in the 
name of the whole regiment. The king gladly 
acceded to their request, and he himself conducted 
the little officers into the reception-room, where 
was the dauphin, standing at the side of his 
mother. 

The little colonel hastened to greet them. 
“Welcome, my comrades, welcome!” cried he, 
extending his hand to them. “ My mamma queen 
tells me that you have brought me something 


15b 


MARIE A^sTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


which will give me pleasure. But it gives me pleas- 
ure to see you, and nothing more is needed.” 

“But, colonel, you wiU not refuse our pres- 
ent ? ” 

“ Oh, certainly not, for my papa king says that 
a colonel is not forbidden taking a gift from his 
regiment. What is it ? ” 

“Colonel, we bring you a set of dominoes,” 
said a httle officer, named Palloy, who was the 
speaker of the delegation— “ a set of dominoes 
entirely made out of the ruins of the Bastile.” 

And taking the wrapper from the white marble 
box, bound with gold, he extended it to the dau- 
phin, and repeated with a solemn face the follow- 
ing lines : 

'‘Those gloomy walls that once awoke onr fear 
Are changed into the toy we offer here : 

And when with joyful face the gift you view, 
Think what the people’s mighty love can do.” * 

Poor little dauphin ! Even when they wanted 
to do him homage, they were threatening him ; 
and the present which affection offered to the 
royal child was at the same time a bequest of 
Revolution, which even then lifted her warning 
finger, and pointed at the past, when the hate of 
the people destroyed those “ gloomy walls,” which 
had been erected by kingly power. 

In his innocence and childish simplicity, the 
dauphin saw nothing of the sting which, unknown 
even to the givers, lurked within this gift. He 
enjoyed like a child the beautiful present, and lis- 
tened with eagerness while the manner of playing 
the game was described to him. All the stones 
were taken from the mantel of black marble in 
the reception-room of Delaunay, the governor of 
the Bastile, who had been murdered by the peo- 
ple. On the back of each of these stones was a 
letter set in gold, and when the whole were ar- 
ranged in regular order, they formed the sen- 
tence : “ Vive le Hoi, vive la Heine, et AT. le Hau- 


* “ De ces affreux cackots, la terreur des Frangais, 

Vous voyez les debris transformes en hocbets; 
Puissent-ils, en servant aux jeux de votre enfance, 
Du peuple vous prouver I’amour et la puissance.” 
Beaucbesne, “ Louis XYII. Sa Vie, son Agonle,” etc., 
vol. iv., p. 325. 


pMny The marble of the box was taken from 
the altar-slab in the chapel. In the middle was a 
golden relief, representing a face. 

“ That is my papa king,” cried the dauphin, 
joyfully, looking at the representation. 

“Yes,” replied Palloy, the speaker of the little 
company, “every one of us bears him in his 
heart. And like the king, you will live for the 
happiness of all, and like him you will be the idol 
of Prance. We, who shall one day be French sol- 
diers and citizens, bring to you, who will then be 
our commander-in-chief and king, our homage as 
the future supporters of the throne which is des- 
tined for you, and which the wisdom of your 
father has placed under the unshakable power of 
law. The gift which we offer you is but small, 
but each one of us adds his heart to it.” * 

“And I give all of you my heart in return for 
it,” cried the dauphin, with a joyful eagerness, 
“ and I shall take great pains to be good, and to 
learn well, that I may be allowed to amuse myself 
with playing dominoes.” 

And the little fellow fixed his large, blue eyes 
upon the queen with a tender look, took her hand 
and pressed it to his lips. 

“ My dear mamma queen,” he said, caressingly, 
“ if I am real good, and study hard, we can both 
play dominoes together, can’t we ? ” 

A sad smile played around the lips of the queen, 
and no one saw the distrustful, timid look which 
she cast at the box, which to her was merely the 
memorial of a dreadful day. 

“Yes, my child,” she replied, mildly, “we will 
play dominoes often together, for you certainly 
will be good and industrious.” 

She controlled herself sufficiently to thank the 
boys with friendly words for the present which 
they had made to the dauphin, and then the depu- 
tation, accompanied by the king and the little 
priuce, withdrew. But as soon as they had gone, 
the smile died away upon her lips, and with an ex 
pression of horror she pointed to the box. 

“ Take it away — oh, take it away ! ” she cried, 
to Madame de Tourzel. “ It is a dreadful re* 


* The veryVords of the little officer. 


REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE. 


157 


j. minder of the past, a terrible prophecy of the fu- 
r ture. The stones of the Bastile, which the peo- 
i pie destroyed, lie in this box ! And the box it- 
self, does it not look like a sarcophagus ? And 
t this sarcophagus bears the face of the king! 
Oh, the sorrow and woe to us unfortunate ones, 
who can not even receive gifts of love without 


seeing them obscured by recollections of hate, 
and who have no joys that have not bitter drops 
of grief mingled with them! The revolution 
sends us storm-birds, and we are to regard them 
as doves bringing us olive-branches. Believe me, 
I see into the future, and I discern the deluge 
which will drown us all ! ” 


BOOK 


IV. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10 , 1792 . 

Marie Antoinette was right. The revolution 
was sending its storm-birds to the Tuileries. They 
beat with their strong pinions against the win- 
dows of the palace ; they pulled up and broke 
with their claws the flowers and plants of the gar- 
den, so that the royal family no longer ventured 
to enter it. But they had not yet entered the 
palace itself ; and within its apartments, watched 
by the National Guard, the queen was at least 
safe from the insults of the populace. 

No, not even there longer, for the storm-birds 
of the revolution beat against the windows, and 
these windows had once in a while to be opened 
to let in a little sunshine, and some fresh air. 
Marie Antoinette had long given up her walks in 
the garden of the Tuileries, for the rabble which 
stood behind the fence had insulted her so often 
with cries and aots, that she preferred to give up 
her exercise rather than to undergo such con- 
temptuous treatment. 

The king, too, in order to escape the scornful 
treatment of the populace, had relinquished his 
walks, and before long things came to such a 
pass that the dauphin was not allowed to visit 
his little garden. Marat, Santerre, Danton, and 
Robespierre, the great leaders of the people, had, 
by their threats against the royalists and their 
insurrectionary movements among the people, 
gained such power, that no one ventured to ap- 
proach the garden of the prince to salute him. 


and show deference to the son of the king. , 
The little regiment had been compelled, in order 
to escape the mockery and contempt, the hatred 
and persecution which followed them, to disband 
after a few months ; and around the fence, when 
the dauphin appeared, there now stood none but 
men sent there by the revolutionists to deride the 
dauphin when he appeared, and shout their wild 
curses against the king and queen. 

One day, when a crowd of savage women stood 
behind the fence, and were giving vent to their 
derision of the queen, the poor dauphin could not 
restrain his grief and indignation. With glow- ^ 
ing cheeks and flaming eyes he turned upon the 
wild throng. 

“ You lie — oh, you lie ! ” he cried, with angry 
voice. “ My mamma queen is not a wicked wo- 
man, and she does not hate the people. My 
mamma queen is so good, so good that — 

His tears choked his voice, and flowed in clear 
streams down over his cheeks. Ashamed, as it 
were, of this indication of weakness, the dauphin 
dashed out of the garden, and hastened so rapidly 
to the palace that the Abbe Bavout could scarcely ' 
follow him. Weeping and sobbing, the dauphin 
passed through the corridor, but when they 
reached the broad staircase which led to the ' 
apartments where the queen lived, the dauphin 
stopped, suppressed his sobs, and hastily dried 
his eyes. 

“ I will not weep any more,” he said, “ it would 
trouble mamma. I beg you, abbe, say nothing 
to mamma. I will try to be cheerful and merry, 
for mamma queen likes much to have me sa 


JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1'792. 


159 


Sometimes, when she is sad and has been weep- 
ing, I make believe not to notice it, and then I 
laugh and sing, and jump about, and then her 
.beautiful face will clear up, and sometimes she 
even smiles a little. So, too, I will be right 
merry, and she shall notice nothing. You would 
not suspect that I have been weeping, would 
you ? ” 

“No, my prince, no one would think you had,” 
answered the abbe, looking with deep emotion 
into the great blue eyes which the dauphin turned 
up to his with an inquiring look. 

“ Well, then, we will go to my mamma queen,” 
cried the dauphin, and he sprang forward and 
opened the door with a smile, and, half concealed 
behind the curtains, he asked, in a jesting tone, 
whether he might have permission to enter her 
majesty’s presence. 

Marie Antoinette bade him heartily welcome, 
and opened her arms to hina. The dauphin em- 
braced her and pressed a glowing kiss upon her 
eyes and upon her lips. 

“You are extraordinarily affectionate to-day, 
my little Louis Charles,” said the queen, with a 
smile. “ What is the cause of that ? ” 

“ That comes from the fact that to-day I have 
nothing to give you excepting kisses — not a sin- 
gle flower. They are all withered in my garden, 
and I do not like to go there any more, for there 
are no more bouquets to pluck for my dear 
mamma queen. Mamma, this is my bouquet.” 

And he kissed and caressed the queen afresh, 
and brought a glow to her eyes and a smile to her 
lips. 

“ Come now, my child, you see that the abbe 
is waiting, and I believe it is time for the study- 
hours to begin. What comes first to-day.” 

“We have first, grammar,” answered the abbe, 
laying the needful books upon the little table at 
which the dauphin always took his lessons in the 
presence of the queen. 

“ Grammar ! ” cried the dauphin ; “ I wish it 
were history. That I like, but grammar I hate ! ” 

“ That comes because you make so many mis- 
takes in it,” said the abbe ; “ and, certainly, gram- 
mar is very hard.” 


The child blushed. “ Oh, it is not on that ac- 
count,” he said. “ I do not dislike grammar be- 
cause it is hard, but merely because it is te 
dious.” 

“And I will wager that on that account you 
have forgotten what we went over in our last 
grammar hour. We were speaking of the three 
comparatives. But you probably do not remem 
ber them.” 

“ You are mistaken,” replied the dauphin, smil 
ing. “ In proof, hear me. If I say, ‘ My abbe is 
a good abbe,’ that is the positive. If I say, ‘ My 
abbe is better than another abbe,’ that is the 
comparative. And,” he continued, turning his 
eyes toward the queen with an expression of in- 
tense affection, “ if I say, ‘ My mamma is the 
dearest and best of all mammas,’ that is the su- 
perlative.” * 

The queen drew the boy to her heart and kissed 
him, while her tears flowed down upon his auburn 
locks. 

On the next day, at the time of his accustomed 
walk, the queen went into the dauphin’s room to 
greet him before he went into the garden. 

“Mamma, I beg your permission to remain 
here,” said the dauphin. “My garden does not 
please me any longer.” 

“ Why not, my son,” asked Marie Antoinette, 
“ has any thing happened to you ? ” 

“Yes, mamma,” he answered, “something haa 
happened to me. There are so many bad people 
always standing around the fence, and they look 
at me with such evil eyes, that I am afraid of 
them, and they scold and say such hard things. 
They laugh at me, and say that I am a stupid 
jack, a baker’s boy that does not know how to 
make a loaf, and they call me a monkey. That 
angers me and hurts my feelings, and if I begin 
to cry I am ashamed of myself, for I know that it 
is very silly to cry before people who mean ill to 
us. But I am still a poor little boy, and my tears 
are stronger than I. And so I want you, mamma, 
not to let me go to the garden any more. Mouf- 
flet and I would a great deal rather play in my 

* The dauphin’s own words. — See Beauchesne’s “ Louis 
XYIL,” vol. i., p. 133. 


160 


MARIE ANTOIJSTETTE AND HER SON. 


room. Come here, Moufflet, make your compli- 
ments to the queen, and salute her like a regular 
grenadier.” 

And smiling, he caught the little dog by the 
fore-paws, and made him stand up on his hind 
legs, and threatened Moufflet with his hand till 
he made him stand erect and let his fore feet hang 
down very respectfully. 

The queen looked down with a smile at the 
couple, and laughed aloud when the dauphin, still 
waving his hand threateningly to compel the dog 
to stand as he was, jumped up, ran to the table, 
caught up a paper cap, which he had made and 
painted with red stripes, and put it on Moufflet’s 
head, calling out to him : “ Mr. Jacobin, behave 
respectfully ! Make your salutations to her ma- 
jesty the queen ! ” 

After that day, the dauphin did not go into his 
garden again, and the park of the Tuileries was 
now the exclusive property of the populace, that 
took possession of it with furious eagerness. 

The songs of the revolution, the wild curses of 
the haters of royalty, the coarse laughter and 
shouting of the rabble — these were the storm- 
birds which were beating at the windows of the 
royal apartments. 

Marie Antoinette had still one source of enjoy- 
ment left to her in her sufferings, her correspond- 
ence with her absent friends, and the Duchess de 
Polignac before all others. Once in a while there 
was a favorable opportunity to send a letter by 
the hands of some faithful friend around her, and 
the queen had then the sad satisfaction at least 
of being able to express to some sympathizing 
heart what she was undergoing, without fearing 
that these complaints would be read by her ene- 
mies, as was the case with all letters which were 
sent by post. 

One of these letters to the Duchess de Polignac, 
which history has preserved, gives a faithful and 
touching picture of the sorrows and grief of the 
queen. A translation of it runs thus : 

“ I cannot deny myself the pleasure of embra- 
cing you, my dear heart, but it must be done 
quickly, for the opportunity is a passing one, al- 
though a certain one. T can only write a word. 


which will be forwarded to you with a large pack- ^ 
age. We are guarded like criminals, and this : 
restraint is truly dreadfully hard to bear ! — con- 
stantly too apprehensive for one another, not to be 
able to approach the window without being load- 
ed with insults ; not to be able to take the poor 
children out into the air without exposing the 
dear innocents to reproaches, what a situation is 
ours, my dear heart ! And when you think that 
I suffer not for myself alone, but have to tremble 
for the king as well, and for our friends who are 
with us, you will see that the burden is well-nigh 
unbearable ! But, as I have told you before, you 
absent ones, you keep me up. Adieu, dear heart, 
let us hope in God, who looks into our con- 
sciences, and who knows whether we are not ani- 
mated by the truest love for this land. I em- 
brace you ! 

“ P. S. — The king has just come in and wants 
to add a word.” 

“ I will only say, duchess, that you are not for- 
gotten, that we regret receiving so few letters 
from you, and that, whether near or far away, you 
and yours are always loved. Louis.” * 

Not to be able to show one’s self near the win- 
dow without being showered with insults ! Yes> 
and even into the very middle of her room they 
followed her. Even when sitting far away from 
the window, she could not help hearing the loud 
cries which were thundered out on the pavement 
below, as the hucksters bffered to the laughing 
crowd the infamous pamphlet, written with a 
poisoned pen, and entitled “ The Life of Marie 
Antoinette.” 

At times her anger mastered her, her eyes 
flashed, her figure was straightened up, and the 
suffering martyr was transformed for an instant 
into the proud, commanding queen. 

“I will not bear it!” she cried, walking up 
and down with great strides. “ I will speak to 
them ; they shall not insult me without hearing 
my justification. Yes, I will go down to these 
people, who call me a foreigner. I will say to 
them, ‘ Frenchmen, people have had the want of 


♦ Beauchesne, “ Louis XYII.,” vol. i., p. 14^. 


JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1Y92. 


161 


feeling to tell you that I do not love France, I, 
the mother of a dauphin, I — ’ ” * 

But her voice choked in her tears, and she fled 
to the extreme end of the room, fell sobbing on 
her knees, and held both her hands to her ears, 
in order not to hear the dreadful insults which 
came up from below and through her windows. 

.Thus, amid trials which renewed themselves 

< 

daily, the months passed by. The queen had no 
longer any hope. She had given up every thing, 

' even the hope of an honorable end, of a death 
such as becomes a queen, proud and dignifled be- 
neath the ruins of a palace laid low by an exas- 
perated populace. She knew that the king would 
never bring himself to meet such a death, that 
his weakness would yield to all humiliation, and 
his good-nature resir. t all measures that might per- 
haps bring help. She had sought in vain to in- 
spire him with her zeal. Louis was a good man, 
but a bad king; his was not a nature to rule and 
govern, but rather to serve as the scape-goat for 
the sins of his fathers, and to fall as a victim for 
the misdeeds which his ancestors had committed, 
and through which they had excited the wrath of 
the people, the divine Nemesis that never sleeps. 

The queen knew and felt this, and this knowl- 
edge lay like a mourning veil over her whole 
thought and being, filling her at times with a 
moody resignation, and at times with a swiftly- 
kindling and wrathful pain. 

“ I am content that we be the victims,” cried 
she, wringing her hands, “ but I cannot bear to 
think that my children too are to be punished for 
what they have not committed.” 

This thought of her children was the pillar 
which always raised the queen up again, when 
the torture of her daily life cast her to the ground. 
She would, she must live for her children. She 
must, so long as a breath remained in her, devote 
all her powers to retain for her son the dauphin 
at least the crown beneath whose burden his 
father sank. She wanted nothing more for her- 
self,. all for her son alone. 

There were still true friends who wanted to 

♦ The queen's own words. — See Campan, “M6moire8,” 
vol. 11 


save the queen. Secret tidings came to her that 
all was ready for her escape. It was against her 
that the popular rage was chiefly directed, and 
her life was even threatened. Twice had the at- 
tempt been made to kill the queen, and the most 
violent denunciations of the populace were direct- 
ed against her. It was therefore the queen whom 
her friends wanted most to save. Every thing 
was prepared for the flight, true and devoted 
friends were waiting for her, ready to conduct her 
to the boundaries of France, where she should 
meet deputies sent by her nephew, the Emperor 
Francis. The plan was laid with the greatest 
care ; nothing but the consent of the queen was 
needed to bring it to completion, and save her 
from certain destruction. But Marie Antoinette 
withheld her acquiescence. “ It is of no conse- 
quence about my life,” she said. “ I know that 
I must die, and I am prepared for it. If the king 
and my children cannot escape with me, I re- 
main ; for my place is at the side of my husband 
and my children.” 

At last the king himself, inspired by the cour- 
age and energy of his wife, ventured to oppose 
the decisions and decrees of the all-powerful As- 
sembly. It had put forth two new decrees. It 
had resolved upon the deportation of all priests 
beyond the limits of France, and also upon the 
establishment of a camp of twenty thousand men 
on the Rhine frontier. With the latter there had 
been coupled a warning, threatening with death 
all who should spend any time abroad, and en- 
gage in any armed movement against their own 
country. 

To both these decrees Louis refused his sanc- 
tion ; both he vetoed on the 20th of June, 1'792. 

The populace, which thronged the doors of the 
National Assembly in immense masses, among 
whom the emissaries of revolution had been very 
active, received the news of the king’s veto with 
a howl of rage. The storm-birds of revolution 
flew through the streets, and shouted into all the 
windows : “ The country is in danger ! The king 
has been making alliances abroad. The Austrian 
woman wants to summon the armies of her own 
land against France, and therefore the king has 


11 


162 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


vetoed the decree which punishes the betrayers 
of their country. A curse on M. Yeto ! Down 
with Madame Yeto ! That is the cry to-day for 
the revolutionary party. A curse on M. Yeto ! 
Down with Madame Yeto ! ” 

The watch-cry rolled like a peal of thunder 
through all the streets and into all the houses ; 
and, while within their closed doors, and in the 
stillness of their own homes, the well-disposed 
praised the king for having the courage to protect 
the priests and the 'emigres^ the evil-disposed bel- 
lowed out their curses through all the streets, and 
called upon the rabble to avenge themselves upon 
Monsieur and Madame Yeto. 

Nobody prevented this. The National Assem- 
bly let every thing go quietly on, and waited with 
perfect indifference to see what the righteous 
anger of the people should resolve to do. 

Immense masses of howling, shrieking people 
rolled up, on the afternoon of the 20th of June, to 
the Tuileries, where no arrangements had been 
made for defence, the main entrances not even be- 
ing protected that day by the National Guard. 

The king gave orders, therefore, that the great 
doors should be opened, and the people allowed 
to pass in unhindered. 

In a quarter of an hour all the staircases, corri- 
dors, and halls were filled by a howling, roaring 
crowd ; the room of the king alone was locked, 
and in this apartment were the royal family and 
a few faithful friends — the king, bland and calm 
as ever ; the queen, pale, firm, uncomplaining ; 
Madame Elizabeth, with folded hands, praying ; 
the two children drawing closely together, softly 
weeping, and yet suppressing their sobs, because 
the queen had, in a whisper, commanded them to 
keep still. 

A little company of faithful servants filled the 
background of the room, and listened with sus- 
pended breath to the axe-strokes with which the 
savage crowd broke down the doors, and heard 
the approaching cries of the multitude. 

At last a division of the National Guard reached 
the palace, too late to drive the people out, but 
perhaps in season to protect the royal family. 
The door of the royal apartment was opened to 


the second officer of the National Guard, M, 
Acloque. He burst in, and, kneeling before the 
king, conjured him, with tears in his eyes, to 
show himself to the people, and by his presence 
to calm the savage multitude. 

By this time the two children were no longer 
able to control their feelings and suppress their 
fear. The dauphin burst into tears and loud 
cries; he clung affrighted to. the dress of his 
mother ; he implored her with the most moving 
tones to take him away, and go with him to his 
room. Marie Antoinette stooped down to the 
poor little fellow, and pressed him and Theresa, 
who was weeping calmly, to her heart, whisper- 
ing a few quieting words into their ears. 

While the mother was comforting her children, 
Louis, yielding to Acloque’s entreaties, had left 
the room, in order to show himself to the people. 
Madame Elizabeth, his sister, followed hiin through 
the corridor into the great hall, passing through ' 
the seething crowd, which soon separated her 
from the king. Pushed about on all sides, Ma- 
dame Elizabeth could not follow, and was now 
alone in the throng, accompanied only by her 
equerry, M. Saint-Pardoux. Armed men pressed 
up against the princess, and horrid cries surged 
around her. 

“ There is the Austrian woman ! ” and at once 
all pikes, all weapons were directed against the 
princess. 

“For God’s sake!” cried M. de Saint Par- 
doux, “ what do you want to do ? This is not 
the queen I ” 

“ Why do you undeceive them ? ” asked Ma- 
dame Elizabeth, “ their error might save the 
queen ! ” 

And while she put back one of the bayonets 
directed against her breast, she said, gently : 

“ Take care, sir, you might wound somebody, 
and I am convinced that you would be sorry.” 

The people were amazed at this, and respect- 
fully made way for her to come up with the king. 

He stood m the middle of the hall, surrounded by 
a crowd threatening him with wild curses. Or 
of these desperadoes pressed close up to the kir 
while the others were shouting that they mu 


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THE POPULACE AT THE TUILEPJES. p. 1C3. 








JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1792. 


163 


strangle the whole royal family, and, pulling a' 
bottle and a glass out of his pocket, he filled the 
latter, gave it to the king, and ordered him to 
drink to the welfare of the nation. 

The king quietly took the glass. “ The nation 
must know that I love it,” said he, “ for I have 
made many sacrifices for it. From the bottom 
of my heart I drink to its welfare,” and, in spite 
^ of the warning cries of his friends, he put the 
glass to his lips and emptied it. 

The crowd was beside itself with delight, and 
their cries were answered from without by the 
demand of the bloodthirsty rabble — “ How soon 
are you going to throw out the heads of the king 
and the queen ? ” 

j| Marie Antoinette had meanwhile succeeded in 
pacifying the dauphin. She raised herself up, 
and when she saw that the king had gone out, 
she started toward the door. 

Her faithful friends stopped the way ; they re- 
' minded her that she was not simply a queen, that 
j she was mother, too. They conjured her with 
! tears to give ear to prudence — not to rush in 
vain into danger, and imperil the king still more. 

No one shall hinder me from doing what is 
my duty,” cried the queen. “ Leave the door- 
way free.” 

But her friends would not yield ; they defied 
[ even the wrath of the queen. At that moment, 
some of the National Guards came in through 
another door, and pacified Marie Antoinette, as- 
suring her that the life of the king was not threat- 
ened. 

In the mean while the shouting came nearer 
and nearer, the cries resounded from the guard- 
room, the doors were torn open, and the people 
surged in, in immense waves, like the sea lashed 
^ into fury by the storm. The National Guards 
rolled a table before the queen and her children, 
and placed themselves at the two sides to defend 
them. 

Only a ^it of wood now separated the queen 
from her enemies, who brandished their weapons 
at her. But Marie Antoinette had now regained 
her whole composure. She stood erect; at her 
right hand, her daughter, who nestled up to her 


mother — at her left, the dauphin, who, with wide- 
open eyes and looks of astonishment, gazed at 
the people bursting in. Behind the queen were 
Princesses Lamballe and Tarente, and Madame 
Tourzek 

A man, with dishevelled hair and bare bosom, 
gave the queen a handful of rods, bearing the in- 
scription, “ For Marie Antoinette ! ” Another 
showed her a guillotine, a third a gallows, with 
the inscription, “ Tremble, tyrant ! thy hour has 
come ! ” Another held up before her, on the 
point of a pike, a human heart dripping with 
blood, and cried ; “ Thus shall they all bleed — 
the hearts of tyrants and aristocrats ! ” 

The queen did not let her eyes fall, her fixed 
look rested upon the shrieking and howling mul- 
titude ; but when this man, with the bleeding 
heart, approached her, her eyelids trembled;— a 
deathly paleness spread over her cheeks, for she 
recognized him — Simon the cobbler — and a fear- 
ful presentiment told her that this man, who had 
always been for her the incarnation of hatred, is 
now, when her life is threatened, to be the source 
of her chief peril. 

From the distance surged in the cries : “ Long 
live Santerre ! Long live the Faubourg Saint 
Antoine ! Long live the sans-culoUes / ” 

And at the head of a crowd of half-naked fel- 
lows, the brewer Santerre, arrayed in the fantas- 
tic costume of a robber of the Abruzzo Mountains, 
with a dagger and pistol in his girdle, dashed into 
the room, his broad-brimmed hat, with three red 
plumes, aslant upon his brown hair, that stream- 
ed down on both sides of his savage countenance, 
like the mane of a lion. 

The queen lifted the dauphin up, set him upon 
the table, and whispered softly to him, he must 
not cry, he must not grieve, and the child 
smiled and kissed his mother’s hands. Just then 
a drunken woman rushed up to the table, threw 
a red cap down upon it, and ordered the queen, 
on pain of death, to put it on. 

Marie Antoinette threw both her arms around 
the dauphin, kissed his auburn hair, and turned 
calmly to General de Wittgenhofen, who stood 
near her. 


164 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ Put the cap upon me,” said she, and the women 
howled with pleasure, while the general, pale with 
rage and trembling with grief, obeyed the queen’s 
command, and put the red cap upon that hair 
which trouble had already turned gray in a night. 

But, after a minute. General Wittgenhofen took 
the red cap from the head of the queen, and laid 
it on the table. 

From all sides resounded thus the commanding 
cry : “ The red cap for the dauphin ! The tri- 
color for Little Yeto!” And the women tore 
their three-colored ribbons from their caps and 
threw them upon the table. 

“ If you love the nation,” cried the women to 
the queen, “ put the red cap on your son.” 

The queen motioned to Madame Tourzel, who 
put the red cap on the dauphin, and decked his 
neck and arms with the ribbons. The child did 
not understand whether it was a joke or a way 
of insulting him, and looked on with a smile of 
astonishment. 

Santerre leaned over the table and looked com- 
placently at the singular group. The proud and yet 
gentle face of the queen was so near him, that when 
he saw the sweat-drops rolling down from beneath 
the woollen cap over the dauphin’s forehead, even 
he felt a touch of pity, and, straightening him- 
self up, perhaps to escape the eye of the queen, 
he called out, roughly : “ Take that cap off from 
that child.; don’t you see how he sweats ? ” 

The queen thanked him with a mute glance, 
and took the cap herself from the head of the 
poor child. 

At this point a horde of howling women pressed 
up to the table, and threatened the queen with 
their fists, and hurled wild curses at her. 

“ Only see how proudly and scornfully this Aus- 
trian looks at us ! ” cried a young woman, who 
stood in the front rank. “ She would like to blast 
us with her eyes, for she hates us.” 

Marie Antoinette turned kindly to them : “ Why 
should I hate you ? ” she asked, in gentle tones. 
“ It is you that hate me — you. Have I ever done 
you any harm ? ” 

“ Not to me,” answered the young woman, 
^ not to me, but to the nation.” 


“ Poor child ! ” answered the queen, gently ; 
“ they have told you so, and you have believed it. 
What advantage would it bring to me to harm 
the nation ? You call me the Austrian, but I am 
the wife of the King of France, the mother of the 
dauphin. I am French with all my feelings of 
wife and mother. I shall never see again the 
land in which I was born, and only in France 
can I be happy or unhappy. And when you 
loved me, I was happy there ” ^ 

She said this with quivering voice and moving 
tones, the tears filling her eyes ; and while she was 
speaking the noise was hushed, and even these 
savage creatures were transformed into gentle, 
sympathetic women. 

Tears came to the eyes of the young woman 
who before had spoken so savagely to the queen. 
“Forgive me,” she said, weeping, “I did not 
know you ; now I see that you are not bad.” 

“ No, she is not bad,” cried Santerre, striking 
with both fists upon the table, “ but bad people 
have misled her,” and a second time he struck the 
table with his resounding blows. Marie Antoinette 
trembled a little, and hastily lifting the dauphin 
from the table, she put him by her side. 

“ Ah ! madame,” cried Santerre, ^smiling, 

■i't- ' ’ 

“ don’t be afraid, they will do you no harm* ; but 
just think how you have been misled, and how 
dangerous it is to deceive the people. I tell you 
that in the name of the people. For the rest, you 
needn’t fear.’ ’ 

“ I am not afraid,” said Marie Antoinette, calmly 
“ no one need ever be afraid who is among brave 
people,” and with a graceful gesture she extended 
her hands to the National Guards who stood by 
the table. 

A general shout of applause followed the 
words of the queen ; the National Guards covered 
her hands with kisses, and even the women were 
touched. 

“ How courageous the Austrian is ! ” cried one. 
“ How handsome the prince is ! ” cried anoth- 
er, and all pressed up to get a nearer view of the 
dauphin, and a smile or a look from him. 

♦ The queen’s own words. — See Beauchesne, voL L, 

p. 106 . 


JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1'792. 


165 


The great eyes of Santerre remained fixed upon 
the queen, and resting both arms upon the table 
he leaned over to her until his mouth was close 
by her ear. 

“ Madame,” he whispered, “ you have very un- 
skilful friends ; I know people who would serve 
you better, who — ” 

But as if ashamed of this touch of sympathy, 
he stopped, sprang back from the table, and with 
a thundering voice, commanded all present to 
march out and leave the palace. 

They obeyed his command, filed out in military 
order past the table, behind which stood the 
queen with her children and her faithful friends. 

A rare procession, a rare army, consisting of 
men armed with pikes, hatchets, and spades, of 
women brandishing knives and scissors in their 
hands, and all directing their countenances, be- 
fore hyena-like and scornful, but now subdued 
and sympathetic, to the queen, who with calm eye 
and gentle look responded to the salutations of 
the retreating crowd with a friendly nod. 

In the mean while the long-delayed help had 
reached the king : the National Guards had over- 
come the raging multitude, and gained possession 
of the great reception-room where Louis was. 
The mayor of Paris, Petion, had come at last, 
and, hailed loudly by the crowd which occupied 
the whole space in the rear of the National Guards, 
he approached the king. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ I have just learned what is 
going on here.” 

“ I am surprised at that,” answered the king, 
with a reproachful look, “the miyor of Paris 
ought to have learned before this about this tu- 
mult, which has now been lasting three hours.” 

“ But is now at an end, sire, since I have come,” 
cried Petion, proudly. “ You have now nothing 
more to fear, sire.” 

“ To fear ? ” replied Louis with a proud shrug. 
“ A man who has a good conscience does not fear. 
Feel,” he said, taking the hand of the grenadier 
who stood at his side, “ lay your hand upon my 
heart, and tell this man whether it beats faster.” * 

* The king’s words. The grenadier’s name whose 
hand the king took, was Lalanne. Later, in the second 
year of “ the one and indivisible republic,” he was con- 


Petion now turned to the people and com- 
manded them to withdraw, “Fellow-citizens,” 
said he, “ you began this day wisely and worthily ; 
you have proved that you are free. End the day 
as you began it. Separate peaceably ; do as I do, 
return to your houses, and go to bed ! ” 

The multitude, flattered by Petion’s praises, 
began to withdraw, and the National Guards es- 
corted the king into the great council-chamber, 
where a deputation of the National Assembly had 
met to pay their respects to the king. 

“ Where is the queen, where are the children ? ” 
cried the king, as, exhausted, he sank into a 
chair. 

His gentlemen hastened out to bring them, and 
soon the queen and the children came in. With 
extended arms Marie Antoinette hastened to her 
husband, and they remained a long time locked 
in their embrace. 

“Papa king,” cried the dauphin, “give me a 
kiss, too ! I have deserved it, for I was brave 
and did not cry when the people put the red cap 
on my head.” 

The king stooped down to the child and kissed 
his golden hair, and then pressed his little daugh- 
ter, who was nestling up to him, to his heart. 

The deputies stood with curious looks around 
the group, to whom it was not granted, even after 
such a fearful day and such imminent peril, to 
embrace each other, and thank God for their 
preservation, without witnesses. 

“Confess, madame,” said one of the deputies 
to Marie Antoinette, in a confidential tone — 
“confess that you have experienced great anx- 
iety.” 

“ No, sir,” replied the queen, “ I have not been 
anxious, but I have suffered severely, because I 
was separated from the king at a moment when 
his life was threatened. I had at least my chil- 
dren with me, and so could discharge one of my 
duties.” 

demned to die by the guillotine, because, as stated in 
the sentence, he showed himself on the 20th of June, 
1792, as a common servant of tyranny, and boasted to 
other citizens' that Capet took his hand, laid it upon his 
heart, and said: “Feel, my friend, whether it beats 
quicker.” — See Hue, “ Derni^res Ann6es de Louis Seize,” 
p.180. 


166 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ I will not excuse every thing that took place 
to-day,’' said the deputy, with a shrug. “But 
confess at least, madame, that the people con- 
ducted themselves very well.” 

“ Sir, the king and I are convinced of the natu- 
ral good-nature of the people ; they are only bad 
when they are led astray.” 

Some other deputies approached the dauphin, 
and directed various questions to him, in order to 
convince themselves about his precocious under- 
standing that was so much talked about. 

One of the gentlemen, speaking of the day that 
had gone by, compared it with St. Bartholomew’s 
night. 

“The comparison does not hold,” cried an- 
other ; “ here is no Charles the Ninth.” 

“And no Catherine de Medicis either,” said 
the dauphin, quickly, pressing the hand of the 
queen to his lips. 

“ Oh ! see the little scholar,” cried the by-stand- 
ers. “Let us see whether he knows as much 
about geography as about history ! ” 

And all pressed up to him, to put questions to 
him about the situation and boundaries of France, 
and about the division of the French territory into 
departments and districts. The prince answered 
all these questions quickly and correctly. After 
every answer he cast an inquiring glance at the 
queen, and when he read in h^r looks that his an- 
swer had been correct, his eyes brightened, and his 
cheeks glowed with pleasure. 

“Our dauphin is really very learned,” cried 
one of the deputies. “I should like to know 
whether he has paid any attention yet to the arts. 
Do you love music, my little prince ? ” 

“ Ah, sir,” answered the dauphin, eagerly, 
“ whoever has heard mamma sing and play, must 
love music ! ” 

“ Do you sing too, prince ? ” 

The dauphin raised his eyes to his mother. 
“ Mamma,” he asked, “ shall I sing the prayer of 
this morning ? ” 

Marie Antoinette nodded. , “ Sing it, my son, 
for perhaps God heard it this morning, and has 
graciously answered it.” 

The dauphin sank upon his knees, and folding 


his hands, he raised his head and turned his blue 
eyes toward heaven, and, with a sweet voice and 
a mild, smiling look, he sang these words : 

“ Oiel, entends la pridre 
Qu’ici je fals ; 

Conserve un si bon p6re 
A ses sujets.” * 

A deep, solemn silence reigned while the dau- 
phin’s voice rang through the room. The faces 
of the deputies, hitherto defiant and severe, soft- 
ened, deeply move^. They all looked at the beau- 
tiful boy, who was still on his knees, his counte- 
nance beaming, and with a smile upon it like the 
face of one in a blissful dream. No one ventured 
to break the silence. The king, whose arm was 
thrown around the neck of his daughter, looked 
affectionately at the dauphin ; Madame Elizabeth 
had folded her hands, and was praying ; but Marie 
Antoinette, no longer able to control her deep 
emotion, covered her face with her hands, and 
wept in silence. 

From this day the life of the royal family was 
one of constant excitement — an incessant, feverish 
expectation of coming evil. The king bore it all 
with an uncomplaining resignation ; no one drew 
from him a complaint, no one a reproach. But 
the thought never seemed to occur to him that 
perhaps even yet safety might be attained by 
energy, by spirit, or even by flight. 

He had surrendered all ; he was ready to suffer 
as a Christian instead of rising as a king, and pre- 
ferred to fall in honorable battle rather than to 
live despised. 

Marie Antoinette had given up her efforts to 
inspire her husband with her own energetic will. 
She knew that all was in vain, and had accepted 
her fate. Since she could not live as a queen, 
she would at least die as one. She made her 
preparations for this calmly and with charao- 

* See Beancbesne, vol. i., p. 146. This scene is histor- 
ical. See Hue, “ Derni^res Annees de Louis XVI.” Tbii 
prayer is from the opera so much admired at that time, 
Peter the Great : ” 

“ 0 Heaven, accept the prayer, 

I offer here ; 

Unto his subjects spare 
My father dear.” 


JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1'792. 


167 


teristic decision. “ They will kill me, I know,” 
she said to her maids. “ I have only one duty 
left me, to prepare myself to die ! ” 

She lost her accustomed spirit, wept much, and 
exhibited a great deal of feeling. Yet she still 
stood guard over the shattered throne like a reso- 
lute sentinel, and looked around with sharp and 
searching glances, to keep an eye on the enemy, 
and to be ready for his nearer approach. 

She still continued to receive news about every 
thing that transpired in Paris, every thing that 
was resolved upon in the National Assembly and 
discussed in the clubs, and had the libels and 
pamphlets which were directed at her all sent to 
her. Marie Antoinette understood the condition 
of the capital and the feeling of the people better 
than did the king (who often sat for hours, and at 
times whole days, silent and unoccupied) better 
even than did the ministers. She received every 
morning the reports of the emissaries, followed 
the intrigues of the conspirators, and was ac- 
quainted with the secret assemblies which Marat 
called together, and the alliances of the clubs. 
She knew about the calling together of the forty- 
eight sections of the Paris “ fraternity” in one gen- 
eral convention. She knew that Petion, Danton, 
and Manuel, three raving republicans, were at the 
head, and that their emissaries were empowered 
to stir up the suburbs of the city. She knew, too, 
that the monsters from Marseilles, who had been 
active on the 20th of June, were boasting that 
they were going to repeat the deeds of that day 
on a greater scale. Nor was it unknown to her that 
more than half the deputies in the National As- 
sembly belonged to the Jacobin party, and that 
they were looking for an opportunity to strike a 
fresh blow at royalty. Very often, when at dead 
of night Marie Antoinette heard the noisy chorus 
of the rioters from Marseilles singing beneath her 
windows, “ Allans^ enfants de la patrie.'^'’ or the Pa- 
risians chanting the “ (^a ira^ ga ira ! ” she sprang 
from her bed (she now never disrobed herself on 
retiring), hurried to the beds of her children to see 
that they were not in danger, or called her maids 
and commanded them to light the candles, that 
they might at least see the danger which threatened. 


At last, on the night of the 9th of August, the 
long-feared terror arrived. A gun fired in the 
court of the Tuileries announced its advent. 
Marie Antoinette sprang from her bed, and sent 
her waiting-maid to the king to waken him. The 
king had already risen ; his ministers and a few 
tried friends were now with him. The queen 
wakened her children, and assisted in dressing 
them. She then went with the little ones to the 
king, who received them with an affectionate 
greeting. At length a blast of trumpets an- 
nounced that the movement had become gen- 
eral ; the thunder of cannon and tlie peals of bells 
awakened the sleeping city. 

The royal family, crowded close together, 
silently awaited the stalking of the republic into 
the halls of the king’s palace, or the saving of the 
monarchy by the grace of God and the bravery of 
their faithful friends. Por even then monarchy 
had those who were true to it ; and while the 
trumpet-blasts continued and the bells to ring, 
to awaken republicans to the struggle, the sounds 
were at the same time the battle-cry of the 
royalists, and told them that the king was in 
danger and needed their help. 

About two hundred noblemen had remained in 
Paris, and had not followed the royal princes to 
Coblentz to take arms against their own country. 
They had remained in Paris, in order to defend the 
monarchy to the last drop of their blood, and at 
least to be near the throne, if they were not able 
to hold it up longer. In order not to be sus- 
pected, they carried no arms, and yet it was known 
that beneath the silk vest of the cavalier they con- 
cealed the dagger of the soldier, and they received 
in consequence the appellation of “ Chevaliers of 
the Dagger.” 

At the first notes of the trumpet the nobility 
had hurried on the night of the 10th of August to 
the Tuileries, which were already filled with grena- 
diers, Swiss guards, and volunteers of every rank, 
who had hastened thither to protect the royal 
family. All the staircases, all the corridors and 
rooms, were occupied by them. 

The “ Chevaliers of the Dagger ” marched iu 
solemn procession by them all to the grand re* 


168 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


ception-room, where were the king, the queen, and 
the children. With respectful mien they ap- 
proached the royal pair, imploring the king’s per- 
mission to die for him, and beseeching the queen 
to touch their weapons, in order to make them 
victorious, and to allow them to kiss the royal 
hand, in order to sweeten death for them. There 
were cries of enthusiasm and loyalty on all sides. 
“ Long live the king of our fathers ! ” cried the 
young people. “ Long live the king of our chil- 
dren ! ” cried the old men, taking the dauphin in 
their arms and raising him above their heads, as if 
he were the living banner in whose defence they 
wished to die. 

As the morning dawned, the king, at the press- 
ing request of his wife, walked with her and the 
children through the halls and galleries of the 
palace, to reanimate the courage of their defenders 
who were assembled there, and to thank them for 
their fidelity. Everywhere the royal family was 
received with enthusiasm, everywhere oaths of 
loyalty to death ' resounded through the rooms. 
The king then went, accompanied by a few faith- 
ful friends, down into the park, to review the bat- 
talions of the National Guard who were stationed 
there. 

When Louis appeared, the cry, “ Long live the 
king ! ” began to lose the unanimity which had 
characterized it in the palace. It was suppressed 
and overborne by a hostile murmur, and the far- 
ther the king advanced, the louder grew these mut- 
terings ; till at last, from hundreds and hundreds 
of throats, the thundering cry resounded, “ Abdi- 
cation or death ! Long live Petion ! Resignation 
or death ! ” 

The king turned hastily around, and, with pale 
face and forehead covered with drops of cold 
sweat, he returned to the palace. 

“ All is lost ! ” cried the queen, bitterly. “ Noth- 
ing more remains for us than to die worthily.” 

But soon she raised herself up again, and new 
courage animated her soul, when she saw that 
new defenders were constantly pressing into the 
hall, and that even many grenadiers of the Na- 
tional Guard mingled in the ranks of the nobility. 

But these noblemen, these “ Chevaliers of the 


Dagger,” excited mistrust, and a major of the Na- 
tional Guard demanded their removal with a loud 
voice. 

“No,” cried the queen, eagerly, “ these noble- 
men are our best friends. Place them before the 
mouth of the cannon, and they will show you 
how death for one’s king is met. Do not disturb 
yourselves about these brave people,” she con- 
tinued, turning to some grenadiers who were ap- 
proaching her, “ your interests and theirs are 
common. Every thing that is dearest to you and 
them — wives, children, property — depends upon 
your courage and your common bravery.” 

The grenadiers extended their hands to the 
chevaliers, and mutual oaths were exchanged to 
die for the royal family, to save the throne or to 
perish with it. It was a grand and solemn mo- 
ment, full of lofty eloquence ! The hearts of these 
noblemen and these warriors longed impatiently 
for death. With their hands laid upon their 
weapons, they awaited its coming. 

The populace rolled up in great masses to the 
palace. Wild shrieks were heard, the thunder of 
cannon, the harsh cries of women, and the yells 
of men. Within the palace they listened with 
suspended breath. The queen straightened her- 
self up, grasped with a quick movement the hands 
of her children, drew them to herself, and, with 
head bent forward and with breathless expecta- 
tion, gazed at the door, like a lioness awaiting her 
enemy, and making herself ready to defend her 
young with her own life. 

The door was suddenly opened, and the at- 
torney-general Roderer burst in. 

“Sire,” cried he, with impassioned utterance, 
“ you must save yourself ! All opposition is vain. 
Only the smallest part of the National Guard is 
still to be trusted, and even this part only waits 
the first pretext to fraternize with the populace. 
The cannoneers have already withdrawn the load- 
ing from the cannon, because they are unwilling 
to fire upon the people. The king has no time 
to lose. Sire, there is protection for you only in. 
the National Assembly, and only the representa- 
tives of the people can now protect the royal 
family.” 


JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1792. 


169 


The queen uttered a cry of anger and horror. 
“How! ’’she cried. “What do you say? We 
seek protection with our worst enemies ? Never, 
oh, never ! Rather will I be nailed to these walls, 
than leave the palace to go to the National As- 
sembly 1 ” ^ 

And turning to the king, who stood silent and 
undecided, she spoke to him with flaming words, 
with glowing eloquence, addressed him as the 
father of the dauphin, the successor of Henry IV. 
and Louis XIV., sought to animate his ambition 
and touch his heart, and tried for the last time to 
kindle him with her courage and her decision. 

In vain, all in vain. The king remained silent 
and undecided. A cry, one single cry of grief, 
burst from the lips of the queen, and one moment 
her head sank upon her breast. 

“ Hasten, hasten, sire ! ” cried Roderer, “ every 
moment increases the peril. In a quarter of an 
hour perhaps the queen and the children will be 
lost beyond remedy ! ” 

These words awakened the king from his rev- 
erie. He looked up and nodded his head. “We 
can do nothing else,” he said. “ Let us go at 
once to the National Assembly.” 

“ Sir,” cried the queen, turning to Roderer, “ is 
it true that we are deserted by all ? ” 

“ Madame,” answered the attorney-general, 
sadly, “ all opposition is in vain, it will only in- 
crease the danger. Would you sufier yourself, 
the king, your children, and friends, to be killed ? ” 

“ God forbid it I Would that I alone could be 
the offering ! ” 

“Another minute,” urged Roderer, “perhaps 
another second, and it is impossible to guarantee 
your life, and perhaps that of your husband and 
^children.” 

“ My children ! ” cried the queen, throwing her 
arms around them, and drawing them to her 
breast. “ No, oh no, I will not give them over 
to the knife ! ” 

One sigh, one last sob, burst from her lips, and 
then she released herself from the children, and 
approached the king and his ministers. 

* The queen’s own words.— See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 
190 . 


“ This is the last sacrifice,” she said, heavily, 
“ that I can offer. I submit myself, M. Roderer,” 
and then with louder tones, as if she wanted to 
call all present to be witnesses, she continued, 
“ will you pledge yourself for the person of the 
king, and for that of my son ? ” 

“ Madame,” answered Roderer, solemnly, “ I 
pledge myself for this, that we are all ready to 
die at your side. That is all that I can promise.” 

And now the noblemen and the grenadiers 
pressed up to take the king and queen in their 
escort. 

“ For God’s sake,” cried Roderer, “ no demon- 
stration, or the king is lost ! ” 

“ Remain, my friends,” said the king, stolidly, 
“ await our return here.” 

“ We shall soon return,” said Marie Antoinette ; 
and leading her two children, she followed the 
king, who walked slowly through the hall. Prin- 
cess Lamballe and Madame Tourzel brought up 
the rear. 

It was done. The dying monarchy left the 
royal palace to put itself under the protection of 
the revolution, which was soon to give birth to 
the republic. 

It was six o’clock in the morning when the 
royal family crossed the threshold of the Tuile- 
ries — in front the king, conducting Princess 
Elizabeth on his arm, behind him the queen with 
the two children. 

Before leaving the palace, the king received 
tidings that a part of the National Guard had 
withdrawn, in order to protect their families and 
their property from an attack of the populace, 
and that another part had declared itself against 
the king and in favor of the revolution. 

Louis made his way through the seething crowd 
that scarcely opened to allow a free passage for 
the royal family, and overwhelmed them with 
curses, insults, and abuse. Some members of the 
National Assembly went in advance, and could 
themselves scarcely control the raging waves of 
popular fury. 

On the Terrace des Feuillants the people shout- 
ed, “ Down with the tyrants ! To death, to death 
with them ! ” 


170 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


The dauphin cried aloud with fright, for the 
bloody hands of two yelling women were extended 
after him. A grenadier sprang forward, seized 
the boy with his strong arm, and raised him upon 
his shoulder. 

“ My son, give me back my son ! ” cried the 
queen, wildly. 

The grenadier bowed to her. “ Do not be 
afraid, do you not recognize me ? ” 

Marie Antoinette looked at him, and the hint 
of a smile passed over her face. She did indeed 
recognize him who, like a good angel, was always 
present when danger and death threatened 
her. It was Toulan, the faithful one, by her side 
in the uniform of a National Guardsman. “ Cour- 
age, courage, good queen, the demons are loose,' 
but good angels are near thee too ; and where 
those curse and howl, these bring blessing and 
reconciliation.” 

“ Down with the tyrants ! ” roared the savage 
women. 

“ Do not be afraid, my prince,” said the grena- 
dier, to the dauphin whom he carried upon his 
shoulder, in order to protect him from the 
thronging of the crowd. “Nobody will hurt 
you.” 

“Not me, but my dear papa,” sobbed the child, 
while the tears rolled over his pale cheeks. 

The poor child trembled and was afraid, and how 
could he help it ? Even the king was terrified for 
a moment, and felt as if the tears were coming 
into his eyes. The queen too wept, dried her 
tears, and then wept again. The sad march con- 
sumed more than an hour, in order to traverse the 
bit of way to the Manege, where the National As- 
sembly met. Before the doors of this building 
the cries were doubled ; the attorney-general ha- 
rangued the mob, and sought to quiet it, and 
pushed the royal family into the narrow corridor, 
in which, hemmed in by abusive crowds, they made 
their way forward slowly. At last the hall doors 
opened, and as Marie Antoinette passed in behind 
the king, Toulan gave the little dauphin to her, 
who flung both his arms around the neck of his 
mother. 

A death-like silence reigned in the hall. The 


deputies looked with dark faces at the i_ew. 
comers. No one rose to salute the king, no word 
of welcome was spoken. 

The king took his place by the side of the presi- 
dent, the queen and her ladies took the chairs of 
the ministers. Then came an angry cry from the 
tribune : “ The dauphin must sit with the king, he 
belongs to the nation. The Austrian has no 
claim to the confidence of the people.” 

An officer came down to take the child away, 
but Louis Charles clung to his mother, fear was 
expressed on his features, tears stood in his eyes, 
and won a word of sympathy, so that the officer 
did not venture to remove the prince forcibly. 

A deep silence sat in again, till the king raised 
his voice. “ I have come hither,” he said, “ to 
prevent a great crime, and because I believe that 
I am safest surrounded by the representatives of 
the nation.” 

“Sire,” replied President Yergniaud, “you 
can reckon upon the devotion of the National As- 
sembly. It knows its duties ; its members have 
sworn to live and to die in defence of the rights 
of the people and of the constitutional authori- 
ties.” 

Voices were heard at this point from all sides 
of the hall, declaring that the constitution forbids 
the Assembly holding its dehberations in the 
presence of the king and the queen. 

They then took the royal family into the little 
low box scarcely ten feet long, in which the re- 
porters of the “ Logograph” used to write their ac- 
counts of the doings of the Assembly. Into this 
narrow space were a king, a queen, with her sister 
and her children, their ministers and faithful 
servants, crowded, to listen to the discussions 
concerning the deposition of the king. 

From without there came into the hall the wild 
cry of the populace that the Swiss guards had 
been killed, and shouts accompanied the heads as 
they were carried about on the points of pikes. 
The crack of muskets was heard, and the roar of 
cannon. The last faithful regiments were con- 
tending against the army of the revolutionists, 
while within the hall the election by the French 
people of a General Convention was discussed. 


JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1V92. 


171 


This scene lasted the whole day ; the whole 
day the queen sat in the glowing heat, her son 
asleep in her lap, motionless, and like a marble 
statue. She appeared to be alive only when once 
in a while a sigh or a faint moan escaped her. A 
glass of water mixed with currant-juice was the 
only nourishment she took through the day. 

At about five in the afternoon, while the Assem- 
bly was still deliberating about the disposal of the 
king, Louis turned composedly around to the valet 
who was standing back of him. 

am hungry,” he said ; “ bring me something 
to eat I ” 

Hue hastened to bring, from a restaurant near 
by, a piece of roast chicken, some fruit and stewed 
plums ; a small table was procured, and carried 
into the reporters’ box of the “ Logograph.” 

The countenance of the king hghtened up a 
little, as he sat down at the table and ate his din- 
ner with a good appetite. He did not hear the 
suppressed sobs that issued from a dark corner 
of the box. To this corner the unhappy woman 
had withdrawn, who yesterday was Queen of 
France, and whose pale cheeks reddened with 
shame at this hour to see the king eating with 
his old relish ! 

The tears started afresh from her eyes, and, in 
order to dry them, she asked for a handkerchief, 
for her own was already wet with her tears, and 
with the sweat which she had wiped from the 
forehead of her sleeping boy. But no one of her 
friends could reach her a handkerchief that was 
not red with the blood of those who had been 
wounded in the defence of the queen ! 

It was only at two o’clock in the night that the 
living martyrdom of this session ended, and the 
royal family wer^ conducted to the cells of the 
former Convent des Feuillants, which was above 
the rooms of the Assembly, and which had hastily 
been put in readiness for the night quarters of 
the royal family. Hither armed men, using their 
gun-barrels as candlesticks for the tapers which 
they carried, marched, conducting a king and a 
queen to their improvised sleeping-rooms. A 
dense crowd of people, bearing weapons, sur- 
rounded them, and often closed the way, so that 


it needed the energetic command of the officer in 
charge to make a free passage for them. The 
populace drew back, but bellowed and sang into 
the ears of the queen as she passed by : 

“Madame V6to avait promis 
D’egorger tout Paris.” 

These horrible faces, these threatening, abusive 
voices, frightened the dauphin, who clung trem- 
blingly to his mother. Marie Antoinette stooped 
down to him and whispered a few words in his 
ear. At once the countenance of the boy bright- 
ened, and he sprang quickly and joyfully up the 
staircase ; but at the top he stood still, and waited 
for his sister, who was so heavy with sleep that 
she had to be led slowly up. “ Listen, Theresa,” 
said the prince, joyously, “ mamma has promised 
me that I shall sleep in her room with her, be- 
cause I was so good before the bad people.”* 
And he jumped about delightedly into the rooms 
which had been opened, and in which a supper 
had been even prepared. But suddenly, his coun- 
tenance darkened, and his eyes wandered around 
with an anxious look. 

“ Where is Moufflet ? ” he asked. “ He came 
with me, and he was with me when we left the 
box. Moufflet, Moufflet, where are you, Mouf- 
flet ? ” and asking this question loudly, the dau- 
phin hurried through the four rooms, everywhere 
seeking after the little dog, the inheritance from 
his brother, the former Dauphin of France. 

But Moufflet did not come, and all search was 
in vain ; no Moufflet was to be found. He had 
probably been lost in the crowd, or been trodden 
under foot. 

When at last silence and peace came, and the 
royal family were resting on their hard beds, 
sighs and suppressed sobs were heard from where 
the dauphin lay. It was the little fellow weeping 
for his lost dog. The heir of the kings of France 
had to-day lost his last possession — ^his little, 
faithful dog. 

Marie Antoinette stooped down and kissed his 
wet eyes. “ Do not cry, my boy ; Moufflet will come 
back again to-morrow.” 


♦ Goncourt. — “ Histoire de Marie Antoinette,” p. 234. 


172 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SOX 


“ To-morrow ! certainly, mamma ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

The boy dried his tears, and went to sleep with 
a smile upon hie lips. 

But Marie Antoinette did not sleep; sitting 
erect in her bed, she listened to the cries and 
fiendish shoutings which came up from the ter- 
race of the Feuillants, as the people heaped their 
abuses upon her, and demanded her head. 

On the next day new sujTerings ! The royal 
family had to go again into the little box which 
they had occupied the day before ; they had to 
listen to the deliberations of the National Assem- 
bly about the future residence of the royal family, 
which had made itself unworthy to inhabit the 
Tuileries, while even the Luxemburg palace was 
no suitable residence for Monsieur and Madame 
Yeto. 

The queen had in the mean time regained her 
self-possession and calmness, she could even sum- 
mon a smile to her lips with which to greet her 
children and the faithful friends who thronged 
around her in order to be near her in these pain- 
ful hours. She was pleased with the attentions of 
the wife of the English ambassador. Lady Suth- 
erland, who sent linen and clothes of her own son 
for the dauphin. The queen also received from 
Madame Tourzel her watch with many thanks, 
since she had been robbed of her own and her 
purse on the way to the Convent des Feuillants. 

On receiving news of this theft, the five gentle- 
men present hastened to lay all the gold and 
notes that they carried about them on the table 
before they withdrew. But Marie Antoinette 
had noticed this. “ Gentlemen,” she said, with 
thanks and deep feeling, “ gentlemen, keep your 
money ; you will want it more than we, for you 
will, I trust, live longer.” ^ 

Death had no longer any terrors for the queen, 
for she had too often looked him in the eye of 
late to be afraid. She had with joy often seen 
him take away her faithful servants and friends. 
Death would have been lighter to bear than 
the railings and abuse which she had to experi- 

* The queen’s own words. — See “ Beanchesne” vol. i., 

p. 206 . 


ence upon her walks from the Logograph’s re 
porters’ seat to the rooms in the Convent des 
Feuillants. On one of these walks she saw in the 
garden some respectably dressed people standing 
and looking without hurling insults at her. — 
Full of gratitude, the queen smiled and bowed to 
them. On this, one of the men shouted : “You 
needn’t take the trouble to shake your head so 
gracefully, for you won’t have it much longer ! ” 

“ I would the man were right ! ” said Marie An- 
toinette softly, going on to the hall of the Assem- 
bly to hear the representatives of the nation dis- 
cuss the question whether the Swiss' guards, who 
had undertaken to defend the royal family with 
weapons in their hands, should not be condemned 
to death as traitors to the French nation. 

At length, after five days of continued sufferings, 
the Assembly became weary of insulting ax^d hu- 
miliating longer those who had been robbed of 
their power and dignity ; and it was announced 
to the royal family that they would hereafter 
reside in the Temple, and be perpetual prisoners' 
of the nation. 

On the morning of the 18 th of August two 
great carriages, each drawn by only two horses, 
stood in the court des Feuillants ready to carry 
the royal family to the Temple. In the first of 
these sat the king, the queen, their two children, 
Madame Elizabeth, Princess Lamballe, Madame 
Tourzel and her daughter ; and besides these, Pe- 
tion the mayor of Paris, the attorney-general, and 
a municipal officer. In the second carriage were 
the servants of the king and two officials. A de- 
tachment of the National Guards escorted the 
carriages, on both sides of which dense masses 
of men stood, incessantly pouring out their abuse 
and insults. 

In the Place Yendome the procession stopped, 
and with scornful laughter they showed the king 
the scattered fragments, upon the pavements, of 
the equestrian statue of Louis XIY., which had 
stood there, and which had been thrown from its 
pedestal by the anger of the people. “ So shall it 
be with all tyrants ! ” shouted and roared the mob, 
raising their fists threateningly. 

“ How bad they are 1 ” said the dauphin, looking 


TO THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY. 


with widely-opened eyes at the king, between 
whose knees he was standing. 

“No,” answered Louis, gently, “they are not 
bad, they are only misled',” 

At seven in the evening they reached the 
gloomy building which was now to be the home 
of the King and Queen of France. 

“Long live the nation ! ” roared the mob, which 
filled the inner court as Marie Antoinette and her 
husband dismounted from the carriage. “ Long 
live the nation ! — down with the tyrants ! ” The 
Qiueen paid no attention to the cries ; she looked 
down at her black shoe, which was torn, and out 
of whose tip her white silk stocking peeped. 
“ See,” she said, to Princess Lamballe, who was 
walking by her side, “ see my foot, it would 
hardly be believed that the Queen of France has 
no shoes.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

TO THE 21st of JANUARY. 

“ We must look misfortune directly in the eye, 
and have courage to bear it worthily,” said Marie 
Antoinette. “We are prisoners, and shall long re- 
main so 1 Let us seek to have a kind of house- 
hold life even in our prison. Let us make a fixed 
plan how to spend our days.” 

“ You are right, Marie,” replied Louis ; “ let us 
arrange how to spend each day. As I am no 
longer a king, I will be the teacher of my son, and 
try to educate him to be a good king.” 

“ Do you believe, then, husband, that there are 
to be kings after this in France ? ” asked Marie 
Antoinette, with a shrug. 

“ Well,” answered Louis, “ we will at least seek 
to give him such an education that he shall be able 
to fill worthily whatever station he may be called 
to. I will be his teacher in the sciences.” 

“ And I will interest him and our daughter in 
music and drawing,” said the queen. 

“ And you will allow me to teach my niece to 
embroider an altar-cover,” said Madame Elizabeth. 


m 

“ And in the evening,” said Marie Antoinette, 
nodding playfully to Princess Lamballe, “ in the 
evening we will read comedies, that the children 
may learn of our Lamballe the art of declamation. 
We will seek to forget the past, and turn our 
thoughts only to the present, whatever it may be. 
You see that these four days that we have spent 
here in the Temple have been good schoolmasters 
for me, and have made me patient, and — but what 
is that ? ” exclaimed the queen ; “ did you not 
hear steps before the door? It must be some- 
thing unusual, for it is not yet so late as the offi- 
cials are accustomed to come. Where are the 
children ? ” 

And, in the anxiety of her motherly love, the 
queen hastened up the little staircase which led 
to the second story of the Temple, where was the 
chamber of the dauphin, together with the general 
sitting-room. * 

Louis Charles sprang forward to meet his 
mother, and asked her whether she had come to 
fulfil her promise, and go out with him into the 
garden. The queen, instead of answering, clasped 
him in her arms, and beckoned to Theresa to come 
to her side. “ Oh ! my children, my dear chil- 
dren, I only wanted to see you ; I — ” 

The door opened, and the king, followed by his 
sister. Princess Lamballe, and Madame Tourzel, 
entered. 

“ What is it ? ” cried Marie Antoinette. “ Some 
new misfortune, is it not ? ” 

She was silent, for she now became aware of 
the presence of both of the municipal officials, who 
had come in behind the ladies, and in whose pres- 
ence she would not complain. Manuel, who, since 
the 10th of August, had been attorney-general — 
Manuel, the enemy of the queen, the chief super- 
visor of the prisoners in the Temple, was there — - 
and Marie Antoinette would not grant him the 
triumph of seeing her weakness. 

“ You have something to say to us, sir,” said 
the queen, with a voice which she compelled to be 
calm. 

Yes, Manuel had something to say to her. He 
had to lay before her and the king a decree of 
the National Assembly, which ordered old parties 


174 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


who had accompanied “ Louis Capet and his wife ” 
to the Temple, either under the name of friends or 
servants, to leave the place at once. 

The queen had not a word of complaint, but 
her pride was vanquished ; she suffered Manuel 
to see her tears. She extended her arms, and 
called the faithful Lamballe to her, mingled her 
tears with those of the princess, and then gave 
a parting kiss to Madame de Tourzel and her 
daughter. 

The evening of that day was a silent and soli- 
tary one in the rooms of the Temple. Their last 
servants had been taken away from the royal 
prisoners, and only Clery, the valet of the king, 
had been suffered to remain, to wait upon his mas- 
ter. The. next morning, however, Manuel came 
to inform the queen that she would be allowed to 
have two other women to wait upon her, and 
gave her a list of names from which she might 
choose. But Marie Antoinette, with proud com- 
posure, refused to accept this offer. “We have 
been deprived of those who remained faithful to 
us out of love, and devoted their services to us as 
a free gift, and we will not supply their places by 
servants who are paid by our enemies.” 

“ Then you will have to wait upon yourselves,” 
cried Manuel, with a harsh voice. 

“ Yes,” answered the queen, gently, “ we will 
wait upon ourselves, and take pleasure in it.” 

And they did wait upon themselves ; they took 
the tenderest care one of another, and performed 
all these offices with constant readiness. The 
king had, happily, been allowed to retain his valet, 
who dressed him, who knew all his quiet, moder- 
ate ways, and who arranged every thing for the 
king in the little study at the Temple, as he had 
been accustomed to do in the grand cabinet at 
Versailles. The ladies waited upon themselves, 
and Marie Antoinette undertook the task of 
dressing and undressing the dauphin. 

The little fellow was the sunbeam which now 
and then would light up even the sombre apart- 
ments of the Temple. With the happy careless- 
ness of infancy, he had forgotten the past, and 
did not think of the future ; he lived only in the 
present, sought to be happy, and found his happi- 


ness when he succeeded in calling a smile to the 
pale, proud lips of the queen, or in winning a J 
word of praise from the king for his industry and 

his attention. i 

r 

And thus the days went by with the royal fam- 
ily — monotonous, sad, and dreary. No greeting i 
of love, no ray of hope came in from the outer j 
world, to lighten up the thick walls of the old j 
building. No one brought the prisoners news of 
what was transpiring without. They were too ' 
well watched for any of their friends to be able | 
to communicate with them. This was the great- 
est trial for the royal captives. Not a moment, 
by day or by night, when the eyes of the sentries 
were not directed toward them, and their motions , 
observed ! The doors to the anterooms were con- 
stantly open, and in them always there were offi- 
cials, with searctiing looks and with severe faces, 
watching the prisoners in the inner rooms. Even ■ 
during the night this trial did not cease, and the 
Queen of France had to undergo the indignity of 
having the door of her sleeping-room constantly ! 
open, while the officials, who spent the night in 
their arm-chairs in the anteroom, drank, played, | 
and smoked, always keeping an eye on her bed, 
in order to be sure of her presence. 

Even when she undressed herself, the doors of 
the queen’s apartment were not closed ; a mere 
small screen stood at the foot of the bed ; this 
was removed as soon as the queen had disrobed 
and lain down. 

This daily-renewed pain and humiliation — this 
being watched every minute — was the heaviest 
burden that the prisoners of the Temple had to 
bear, and the proud heart of Marie Antoinette 
rose in exasperation every day against these re- 
straints. She endeavored to be patient and to 
choke the grief that rose within her, and yet she 
must sometimes give expression to it in tears and 
threatening words, which now fell like cold thun 
derbolts from the lips of the queen, and no longe 
kindled any thing, no longer dashed any thing in 
pieces. 

Thus August passed and September began, sad, 
gloomy, and hopeless. On the morning of the 
3d of September, Manuel came to the royal pris- 


TO THE' TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY. 


175 


oners, to tell them that Paris was in great excite- 
ment, and that they were not to go into the gar- 
den that day as usual about noon, but were to 
remain in their rooms. 

“ How is it with my friend. Princess Lam- 
balle ? ” asked Marie Antoinette. 

Manuel was perplexed ; he even blushed and 
cast down his eyes, as he answered that that 
morning the princess had been taken to the 
, prison La Force. Then, in order to divert con- 
versation from this channel, Manuel told the 
prisoners about the tidings which had recently 
reached Paris, and had thrown the city into such 
excitement and rage. 

The neighboring powers had made an alliance 
against France. The King of Prussia was ad- 
vancing with a powerful army, and had already 
confronted the French force before Chalons, while 
the Emperor of Germany was marching against 
Alsace. Marie Antoinette forgot the confusion 
and perplexity which Manuel had exhibited, in the 
importance of this news. She hoped again ; she 
found in her elastic spirit support in these tidings, 
and began to think of the possibility of escape. 
It did not trouble her that beneath her window 
she heard a furious cry, as the crowd surged up 
to the prison walls : “ The head of the Austrian ! 
Give us the head of the Austrian ! ” She had 
so often heard that — it had been so long the daily 
refrain to the sorrowful song of riot which filled 
Paris — that it had lost all meaning for Marie An- 
toinette. 

Nor did it disturb her at all that she heard 
the loud beatings of drums approaching like 
muffled thunder, that trumpets were blown, that 
musketry rattled, and loud war-cries resounded in 
the distant streets. 

Marie Antoinette paid no heed to this. She 
heard constantly ringing before her ear Manuel’s 
words ; “ The neighboring nations have allied 
against France. The King of Prussia is before 
Chalons. The Emperor of Germany is advancing 
upon Strasburg.” “ 0 God of Heaven, be merci- 
ful to us ! Grant to our friends victory over our 
enemies. Release us from these sufferings and 
pains, that our children may at least find the hap- 


piness which for us is bui'ed forever in the 
past.” 

And yet Marie Antointtte could speak to no 
one of her hopes and fears. She must breathe 
her prayer in her own heart alone, for the muni- 
cipal officials were there, and the two servants 
who had been forced upon the prisoners, Tison 
and his wife, the paid servants of their enemies. ' 

Only the brave look and the clearer brow told 
the king of the hopes and wishes of his wife, but 
he responded to them with a faint shrug and a 
sad smile. 

All at once, after the royal family had sat down 
to take their dinner at the round table — all at 
once there was a stir in the building which was 
before so still. Terrible cries were heard, and 
steps advancing up the staircase. The two offi- 
cials, who were sitting in the open anteroom, 
stood and listened at the door. This was sud- 
denly opened, and a third official entered, pale, 
trembling with rage, and raising his clinched 
fists tremblingly against the king. 

“The enemy is in Yerdun,” cried he. “We 
shall all be undone, but you shall be the first to 
suffer ! ” 

The king looked quietly at him ; but the dau- 
phin, terrified at the looks of the angry man and 
his loud voice, burst into a violent fit of weeping 
and sobbing, and Marie Antoinette and the little 
Theresa strove in vain to quiet the little fellow by 

I 

gentle words. 

A fourth official now entered, and whispered 
secretly to his colleagues. 

“Is my family no longer in safety here?” 
asked the king. 

The official shrugged his shoulders. “ The re- 
port has gone abroad that the royal family is no 
longer in the Temple. This has excited the peo- 
ple, and they desire that you all show yourselves 
at the windows, but we will not permit it ; you 
shall not show yourselves. The public must have 
more confidence in its servants.” 

“ Yes,” cried the other official, still raising his 
fists — “ yes, that it must ; but if the enemy come, 
the royal family shall die ! ” 

And when at these words the dauphin began 


176 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


to cry aloud again, lie continued : “ I pity the 
poor little fellow, but die he must ! ” 

Meanwhile the cries outside were still louder, 
and abusive epithets were distinctly heard direct- 
ed at the queen. A fifth official then came in, 
followed by some soldiers, in order to assure 
themselves, in the name of the people, that the 
Capet family was still in the tower. This official 
demanded, in an angry voice, that they should go 
to the window and show themselves to the peo- 
ple. 

“ No, no, they shall not do it,” cried the other 
functionaries. 

“ Why not ? ” asked the king. “ Come, Marie.” 

He extended his hi^nd to"' her, and advanced 
with her to the window. 

“ No, don’t do it ! ” cried the official, rushing to 
the window. 

“ Why not ? ” asked the king, in astonishment. 

“Well,” cried the man, with threatening fist, 
“ the people want to show you the head of Lam- 
balle, that you may see how the nation takes ven- 
geance on its tyrants.” 

At that same instant there arose behind the 
window-pane a pale head encircled with long, fair 
hair, the livid forehead sprinkled with blood, the 
eyes lustreless and fixed — the head of Princess 
Lamballe, which the people had dressed by a 
friseur^ to hoist it upon a pike and show it to the 
queen. 

The queen had seen it ; staggering she fell back 
upon a chair ; she gazed fixedly at the window, 
even after the fearful phantom had disappeared. 
Her lips were open, as if for a cry which had been 
silenced by horror. She did not weep, she did not 
complain, and even the caresses of the children, 
the gentle address of Princess Elizabeth, and the 
comforting words of the king could not rouse her 
out of this stupefying of her whole nature. 

Princess Lamballe had been murdered, and 
deep in her soul the queen saw that this was only 
the prelude to the fearful tragedy, in whiph her 
family would soon be implicated. 

Poor Princess Lamballe ! She had been killed 
because she had refused to repeat the impreca- 
tions against the queen, which they tried to extort 


from her lips : “ Swear that you love liberty and 
equality; swear that you hate the king, the 
queen, and every thing pertaining to royalty.” 

“ I will swear to the first,” was the princess’s 
answer, “ but to the last I cannot swear, for it 
does not lie in my heart.” 

This was the offence of the princess, that hate 
did not lie in her heart — the offence of so many 
others who were killed on that 3d of September, 
that dreadful day on which the hordes of Mar- 
seilles opened the prisons, in order to drag the 
prisoners before the tribunals, or to execute them 
without further sentence. 

The days passed by, and they had to be borne. 
Marie Antoinette had regained her composure 
and her proud calmness. She had to overcome 
even this great grief, and the heart of the queen 
had not yet been broken. She still loved, she 
still hoped. She owed it to her husband and 
children not to despair, and better days might 
come even yet. “ We must keep up courage,” she 
said, “ to live till the dawn of this better day.” 

And it required spirit to bear the daily torture 
of this life ! Always exposed to scorn and abuse ! 
Always watched by the eyes of mocking, reviling 
men ! Always scrutinized by Madame Tison, her ser- 
vant, who followed everyone of her motions us a 
cat watches its prey, and among all these sentinels 
the most obnoxious of all was the cobbler Simon. 

Commissioned by the authorities to surprise 
the workmen and masons who were engaged in 
restoring the partially ruined ancient portion of 
the Temple, Simon had made himself at home 
within the building, to discharge his duties more 
comfortably. It was his pleasure to watch this 
humiliated royal family, to see them fall day by 
day, and hear the curses that accompanied them 
at every step. He never appeared in their pres- 
ence without insulting them, and encouraging 
with loud laughter those who irritated him in this. 

Some of the officials in charge never spoke ex- 
cepting with dreadful abuse of the king, the 
queen, and the children. 

One of them cried to his comrade in presence 
of Marie Antoinette : “ If the hangman does not 
guillotine this accursed family, I will do it ! ” 


TO THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY. 


177 


When the royal family went down to take their 
walk in the garden, Santerre used to come up 
with a troop of soldiers. The sentries whom they 
passed shouldered arms before Santerre ; but as 
soon as he had passed and the king came, they 
grounded their arms, and pretended not to see 
him. In the door that led into the garden, 
Rocher, the turnkey, used to stand, and take his 
pleasure in letting the royal family wait before 
unlocking, while he blew great clouds of smoke 
into their faces from his long tobacco-pipe. The 
National Guards who stood in the neighborhood 
used to laugh at this, and hurl all sorts of low, 
vile words at the princesses. Then, while the 
royal prisoners were taking their walk, the can- 
noneers used to collect in the allies through 
which they wandered, and dance to the music of 
revolutionary songs which some of them sang. 
Sometimes the gardeners who worked there hur- 
ried Up to join them in this dance, and to encircle 
the prisoners in their wild evolutions. One of 
these people displayed his sickle to the king one 
day, and swore that he would cut off the head of 
the queen with it. And when, after their sad 
walk, they had returned to the Temple, they were 
received by the sentinels and the turnkey with 
renewed insults ; and, as if it were not enough to 
fill the ear with this abuse, the eye too must have 
its share. The vilest of expressions were written 
upon the walls of the corridors which the royal 
party had to traverse. You might read there: 
“ Madame Veto will soon be dancing again. Down 
with the Austrian she- wolf! The wolf’s brood 
must be strangled. The king must be hanged 
with his own ribbon ! ” Another time they had 
drawn a gallows, on which a figure was hanging, 
with the expression written beneath, “ Louis tak- 
ing an air-bath ! ” 

And so, even the short walks of the prisoners 
were transformed into suffering. At first the 
queen thought she could not bear it, and the 
promenades were given up. But the pale cheeks 
of her daughter, the longing looks which the dau- 
phin cast from the closed window to the garden, 
warned the mother to do what the queen found 
too severe a task. She underwent the pain in- 
12 


volved in this, she submitted herself, and every 
day the royal pair took the dear children into the 
garden again, and bore this unworthy treatment 
without complaint, that the children might enjoy 
a little air and sunshine. 

One day, the 21st of September, the royal fam- 
ily had returned from their walk to their isitting- 
room. The king had taken a book and was read- 
ing ; the queen was sitting near him, engaged in 
some light work ; while the dauphin, with his 
sister Theresa, and his aunt Elizabeth, were in 
the next room, and were busying each other with 
riddles. In the open anteroom the two officials 
were sitting, their eyes fixed upon the prisoners 
with a kind of cruel ^pleasure. 

Suddenly beneath' their %indows were heard 
the loud blast of trumpets and the rattle of 
drums; then followed a deep silence, and amid 
this stillness the following proclamation was read 
with a loud voice ; 

“The monarchy is abolished in France. All 
official documents will be dated from the first 
year of the republic. The national seal will be 
encircled by the words, ‘Republic of France.’ 
The national coat-of-arms will be a woman sitting 
upon a bundle of weapons, and holding in her 
hand a lance tipped with a liberty-cap.” 

The two officials had fixed their eyes upon the 
king and queen, from whose heads the crown had 
just fallen. They wanted to read, with their 
crafty and malicious eyes, the impression which 
the proclamation had made upon them. But 
those proud, calm features disclosed nothing. 
Not for a moment did the king raise his eyes 
from the book which he was reading, while 
the voice without uttered each word with fearful 
distinctness. The queen quietly went on with 
her embroidery, and not for a moment did she 
intermit the regular motion of her needle. 

Again the blast of trumpets and the rattle of 
drums. The funeral of the royalty was ended, 
and the king was, after this time, to be known 
simply as Louis Capet, and the queen as Marie 
Antoinette. Within the Temple there was no 
longer a dauphin, no longer a Madame Royale, no 
longer a princess, but only the Capet family ! 


178 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


The republic had hurled the crowns from the 
heads of Louis and Marie Antoinette; and when, 
some days later, the linen which had been long 
begged for, had been brought from the Tuileries, 
the republic commanded the queen to obliterate 
the crown which marked each piece, in addition 
to the name. 

But their sufferings are by no means ended yet. 
Still there are some sources of comfort left, and 
now and then a peaceful hour. The crowns have 
fallen, but hearts still beat side by side. They have 
no longer a kingdom, but they are together, they 
can speak with looks one to another, they can 
seek to comfort one another with smiles, they can 
cheer each other up with a ^^passing grasp of the 
hand, jthat escapes tlie eye of the sentries ! We 
oply suffer half what we bear in common with 
others, and every thing seems lighter, when there 
is a second one to help lift the load. 

Perhaps the enemies of the king and queen 
have an instinctive feeling of this, and their hate 
makes them sympathetic, in order to teach them 
to invent new tortures'and new sufferings. 

Yes, there are unknown pangs still to be felt ; 
their cup of sorrows was not yet full ! The parents 
are still left to each other, and their eyes are still 
allowed to rest upon their children ! But the “ one 
and indivisible republic ” means to rend even these 
bonds which bind the royal family together, and 
to part those who have sworn that nothing shall 
separate them but death ! The republic — which 
had abolished the churches, overthrown the altars, 
driven the priesthood into exile — ^the republic 
cannot grant to the Capet family that only death 
shall separate them, for it had even made Death 
its servant, and must accept daily victims from 
him, offered on the Place de Liberte, in the cen- 
tre of which stood the guillotine, the only altar 
tolerated there. 

In the middle of October the republic sent its 
emissaries to the Temple, to tear the king from 
the arms of his wife and his children. In spite of 
their pleadings and cries, he was taken to another 
part of the Temple — to the great tower, which 
from this time was to serve as his lodgings. And 
in order that the queen might be spared no pang. 


the dauphin was compelled to go with his father, 
and be separated from his mother. 

This broke the pride, the royal pride of Marie 
Antoinette. She wrung her hands, she wept, she 
cried, she implored with such moving, melting 
tones, not to be separated from her son and hus- 
band, that even the heart of Simon the cobbler 
was touched. 

“I really believe that these cursed women 
make me blubber ! ” cried he, angry with the 
tears which forced themselves into his eyes. And 
he made no objection when the other oflScials 
said to the queen, with trembling voices, that they 
would allow the royal family to come together at 
their meals. 

One last comfort, one last ray of sunshine ! 
There were still hours in these dismal, monotonous 
days of November, when they could have some 
happiness — ^hours for which they longed, and for 
whose sake they bore the desolate solitude of the 
remaining time. 

At breakfast, dinner, and supper, the Capet 
family were together ; words were interchanged, 
hands could rest in one another, and they could 
delight in the pleasant chatter of the dauphin 
when the king told about the lessons he had 
given the boy, and the progress he was making. 
They sometimes forgot, at those meetings, that 
Death was perhaps crouching outside the Temple, 
waiting to receive his victims ; and they even 
uttered little words of pleasantry, to awaken the 
bright, fresh laugh of the dauphin, the only music 
that ever was heard in those dismal rooms. 

But December took this last consolation from 
the queen. The National Assembly, which had 
now been transformed into the Convention, 
brought the charge of treason against the king. 
He was accused of entering into a secret alliance 
with the enemies of France, and calling the mon- 
archs of Europe to come to his assistance. In an 
iron safe which had been set into the wall of the 
cabinet in the Tuileries, papers had been discov- 
ered which compromised the king, letters from the 
refugee princes, from the Emperor of Germany, 
and the King of Prussia. These monarchs were 
now on the very confines of France, ready to 


TO THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANtARY. 


179 


enter upon a bloody war, and that was the fault 
of the king ! He was in alliance with the enemies 
of his country ! He was the murderer of his own 
subjects ! On his head the blood should return, 
which had been shed by him. 

This was the charge which was brought against 
the king. Twenty members of the Convention 
went to the Temple, to read it to him, and to hear 
his reply. 

He stoutly denied having entertained such re- 
lations with foreign princes ; he declared, with a 
solemn oath, that he had declined all overtures 
from such quarters, because he had seen that, in 
order to free an imprisoned king, France itself 
must be threatened. 

The chiefs of the revolution meant to find him 
guilty. Louis Capet must be put out of the way, 
in order that Robespierre and Marat, Danton, Pe- 
tion, and their friends, might reach unlimited 
power. 

There may have been several in the Convention 
who shrank from this last consequence of their 
doings, but they did not venture to raise their 
voices ; they chimed in with the terrorism which 
the leaders of the revolution exercised upon the 
Convention. They knew that behind these lead- 
ers stood the savage masses of the streets, armed 
with hatred against monarchy and the aristocra- 
cy, and ready to tear in pieces any one as an en- 
emy of the country who ventured to join the 
number of those who were under the ban and the 
sentence of the popular hate. 

Still there were some courageous, faithful ser- 
vants of the king who ventured to take his part 
even there. Louis had now been summoned to 
the bar as an accused person, and the Convention 
had transformed itself into a tribunal whose func- 
tion was to pass judgment on the guilt or inno- 
cence of the king ! 

In order to satisfy all the forms of the law, the 
king should have had an advocate allowed him, 
and the benefit of legal counsel. The Convention 
demanded that those who were ready to under- 
take this task should send in their names. It was 
a form deemed safe to abide by, because it was 
believed that there would be no one who would 


venture to enter upon so momentous and perilous 
a duty. 

But there were such, nevertheless. There were 
still courageous and noble men who pitied the 
forsaken king, and who wanted to try to save 
him ; not willing to see him atone for the debts 
of his predecessors, and bleed for the sins of his 
fathers. And scarcely had the consent of the 
Convention been announced, that Louis Capet 
should have three advocates for his defence, 
when from Paris and all the minor cities letters 
came in from men who declared themselves ready 
to undertake the defence of the king. 

Even from foreign lands there came letters and 
appeals in behalf of the deposed monarch. One 
of them, written in spirited and glowing language, 
conjured France not to soil its noble young free- 
dom by the dreadful murder of an innocent man, 
who had committed no other offence than that he 
was the son of his fathers, the heir of their crown 
and their remissness. It was written by a Ger- 
man poet, Frederick Schiller.* 

From the many requests to serve as his advo- 
cates, Louis chose only two to defend him. The 
first of these was his former minister, the philos- 
opher Lamoignon des Malesherbes, then the ad- 
vocate Trouchet, and finally, at the pressing re- 
quest of Malesherbes, the distinguished young 
advocate Des^ges. To those three men was com- 
mitted the trust of defending the king against the 
dreadful charge of treason to his country, to be 
substantiated by hundreds and hundreds of letters 
and documents. 

After the preliminary investigations -were 
closed, the public charge was made in the Con- 
vention, which still held its sessions in the 
Manage. To this building, situated near the Tui- 
leries, the king, accompanied by his three defend- 
ers and two municipal defenders, and surrounded 
by National Guards, was conducted from the Tem- 
ple. The people danced around the carriage with 
wild shouts of joy and curses of the king. Within 
the vehicle sat Louis, completely calm and self- 
possessed. 

* Schiller’s defence of the king is preserved in the na- 
tional archives. — See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 365. 


180 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ This man must be filled with a singular fanat- 
icism,” said Colombeau, one of the leading offi- 
cials, in the report which he gave to the Conven- 
tion of the ride. “ It is otherwise inexplicable 
how Louis could be so calm, since he had so 
much reason to fear. After we had all entered 
the carriage, and were driving through the streets, 
Louis entered upon conversation, which soon 
turned upon literature, and especially upon some 
Latin authors. He gave hjs judgments with re- 
markable correctness and insight, and it appeared 
to me that he took pleasure in showing his learning. 
One of us said that he did not enjoy Seneca, be- 
cause his love for riches stood in marked contrast 
with his pretended philosophy, and because it 
could not easily be forgiven him that before the 
senate he apologized for the crimes of Nero. This 
reflection did not seem to affect Louis in the least. 
When we spoke of Livy, Capet said that he 
seemed to have taken satisfaction in composing 
great speeches wliich were never uttered to any 
other audience than that which was reached from 
his study-table ; ‘ for,’ he added, ‘ it is impossible 
that generals really delivered such long speeches 
in front of their armies.’ He then compared 
Livy with Tacitus, and thought that the latter 
was far superior to the former in point of style.” * 
The king went on talking about Latin authors 
while the iparriage was carrying him through the 
roaring mob to the Convention, which Des^ge 
addressed in his defence in these courageous 
words : I look for judges among you, but see 
only accusers.” 

The king was completely calm, yet he knew 
that his life was threatened, and that be was 
standing before a tribunal of death. As on the day 
when he was first taken to the Convention, he re- 
quested Malesherbes to forward a note to the 
priest, whose attendance he desired, and who he 
believed would not deny his presence and atten- 
tions. His name was Edgewarth de Firmonh 
The time was not distant when not the services 
of advocates were wanted by the king, but exclu- 
sively those of the priest. 


* See Beauchesne, voL L, p. 896. 


The sentence of death was pronounced on Jan- 
uary 26, 1793. Louis received it calmly, and de- 
sired merely to see his family, to have a confessor 
come to him, and to prepare himself for his 
death. 

During these dreadful weeks Marie Antoinette 
was separated from her husband, alone with her 
children, who no longer were able to smile, but 
who sat day after day with fixed eyes and silent 
lips. The queen knew that the king had been 
accused, had made a private reply to the charges 
brought against him, and had been brought be- 
fore the Convention. But not a word, not a syl- 
lable of the trial which followed, reached her. 
Madame Tison, the female dragon who guarded 
her, watched her too well for any tidings to reach 
her. 

At last, however, the word was brought which 
the heart of the queen had so long anticipated 
tremblingly, for which she had prepared herself 
during the long nights with tears and prayers, 
and which now filled her with grief, anger, and de- 
spair. The king was condemned to death ! He 
wanted only to see his family, to take his leave of 
them ! 

The Convention had granted this privilege to 
him, and had even gone so far in its grace as to 
permit the family to be without the presence of 
witnesses. The meeting was appointed, however, 
in the little dining-room of the king, because a 
glass door led into the adjoining room, and the 
officials could then look in upon the royal family. 
The functionary had withdrawn in order to con- 
duct the queen, the children, and the king’s sister 
from the upper tower. The king was awaiting 
them, walked disquietly up and down, and then 
directed Clery, who was arranging the little room, 
to set the round table, which was in the middle 
of the apartment, on one side, and then to bring 
in a carafe of water and some glasses. “ But,” 
he added, considerately, “not ice-water, for the 
queen cannot bear it, and she might be made im- 
well by it.” 

But all at once the king grew pale, and, stand- 
ing still, he laid his hand upon his loudly-beating 
heart. He had heard the voice of the queen. 


LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH TAKING LEAVE OF IIIS 




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TO THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY. 


I81 


The door opened and they came in — all his 
dear ones. The queen led the dauphin by the 
hand ; Madame Elizabeth walked with the Prin- 
cess Theresa. 

The king went toward them and opened his 
anns to them. They all pressed up to him and 
clasped him in their midst, while loud sobs and 
heart-rending cries filled the room. Behind the 
door were the oflScials, but they could not look 
in upon the scene, for their own eyes were filled 
with tears. In the king’s cabinet, not far away, 
the Abb 6 Edgewarth de Firmont was upon his 
knees, praying for the unfortunates whose wails 
and groans reached even him. 

Gradually the sobs died away. They took their 
places — the queen at the left of her husband ; 
Madame Elizabeth, his ’sister, at his right; oppo- 
site to him, his daughter, Maria Theresa, and be- 
tween his knees the dauphin, looking up into his 
father’s face with widely-opened eyes and a sad 
smile. 

Louis was the first to speak. He told them of 
his trial, and of the charges which they had 
brought against him. But his words were gentle 
and calm, and he expressed his pity for the 
“poor, misled men” who had condemned him. 
He asked his family, too, to forgive them. They 
answered him only with sobs, embraces, tears, 
and kisses. 

Then all was still. The officials heard not a 
word, but they saw the queen, with her children 
and sister-in-law, sink upon their knees, while the 
king, standing erect in the midst of the group, 
raised his hands and blessed them in gentle, noble 
words, which touched the heart of the Abb4 Edge- 
warth, who was kneeling behind the door of the 
neighboring cabinet. 

The king then bade the family rise, took them 
again in his arms, and kissed the queen, who, 
pale and trembling, clung to him, and whose 
quivering lips were not able to restrain a word 
of denunciation of those who had condemned 
him. 

“ I have forgiven them,” said the king, serious- 
ly. “ I have written my will, and in it you will 
read that I pardon them, and that I ask you to do 


the same. Promise me, Marie, that you will never 
think how you may avenge my death.” 

A smile full of sadnes^ and despair flitted over 
the pale lips of the queen. 

“ I shall never be in a situation to take ven- 
geance upon them,” she said. “ But,” she added, 
quickly, “ even if I should ever be able, and the 
power should be in my hands, I promise that I 
will exact no vengeance for this deed.” 

The king stooped down and imprinted a kiss 
upon her forehead. 

“ I thank you, Marie, and I know that you all, 
my. dear ones, will sacredly regard my last testa- 
ment, and that my wishes and words will be en- 
graven on your hearts. But, my son” — and he 
took the dauphin upon his knee, and looked down 
into his face tenderly — “ you are still a child, and 
might forget. You have heard what I have said, 
but as an oath is more sacred than a word, raise 
your hand and swear to me that you will fulfil my 
wish and forgive all our enemies.” 

The boy, turning his great blue eyes fixedly on 
the king, and his lips trembling with emotion, 
raised his right hand, and even the officials in the 
next room could distinctly hear the sweet child’s 
voice repeating the words : “ I swear to you, papa 
king, that I will forgive aU our enemies, and will 
do no harm to those who are going to kilbrny dear 
father ! ” 

• m 

A shudder passed through the hearts of the 
men in the next room ; they drew bac^ from the 
door with pale faces. It seemed to them as if 
they had heard the voice of an angel, and a feel- 
ing of inexpressible pain and regret passed through 
their souls. 

Within the king’s room aU now was still, and 
the abbe in the cabinet heard only the gentle 
murmuring of their prayers, and the suppressed 
weeping and sobs. 

At last the king spoke. “ Now, go, my dear 
ones. I must be alone. I need to rest and col- 
lect myself.” 

A loud wail was the answer. After some min- 
utes, Clery opened the glass door, and the royal 
family were brought into the view of the officials 
once more. The queen was chnging to the right 


182 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


arm of Louis ; they each gave a hand to the 
dauphin. Theresa had flung her arms around the 
king’s body, his sister Elizabeth clung to his left 
arm. They thus moved forward a few steps tow- 
ard the door, amid loud cries of grief and heart- 
breaking sobs. 

“ I promise you,” said Louis, “ to see you once 
more to-morrow morning, at eight o’clock.” 

“At eight? Why not at seven?” asked the 
queen, with a foreboding tone. 

“ Well, then,” answered the king, gently, “ at 
seven. Farewell, farewell ! ” 

The depth of sadness in his utterance with which 
he spoke the last parting word^ doubled the tears 
and sobs of the weeping family. The daughter 
fell in a swoon at the feet of her father, and 
Clery, assisted by the Princess Elizabeth, raised 
her up. 

“Papa, my dear papa,” cried the dauphin, 
nestling up closely to his father, “ let us stay with 
you.” 

The queen said not a word. With pale face 
and with widely-opened eyes she looked fixedly at 
the king, as though she wanted to impress his 
countenance on her heart. 

“ Farewell, farewell ! ” cried the king, once 
more, and he turned quickly around and hurried 
into th^pext room. 

A sinjjg ^ry of grief and horror issued from 
all lips.^ The two children, soon to be orphans, 
then clung Closely to their mother, who threw her- 
self, overmastered by her sobbing, on the neck of 
her sister-in-law. 

“ Forward ! The Capet family will return to 
their own apartments ! ” cried one of the officials. 

Marie Antoinette raised herself up, her eye 
flashed, and with a voice full of anger, she cried : 
“You are hangmen and traitors !” * 

The king had withdrawn to his cabinet, where 
the priest, Abbe Edgewarth de Firmont, addressed 
him -with comforting words. His earnest request 
had been granted, to give the king the sacrament 
before his death. The service was to take place 
very early the next morning, so ran the decision 


of the authorities, and at seven the king was to 
be taken to execution. 

Louis received the first part of this communica- 
tion joyfully, the second part with complete calm- 
ness. 

“ As I must rise so early,” he said to his valet 
Clery, “ I must retire early. This day has been 
a very trying one for me, and I need rest, so as 
not to be weak to-morrow.” He was then un- 
dressed by the servant, and lay down. When 
Clery came at five the next morning to dress him, 
he found the king still asleep, and they must have 
been pleasant dreams which were passing before 
him, for a smile was playing on his lips. 

The king was dressed, and the p^est gave him 
the sacrament, the vessels used having been taken 
from the neighboring Capuchin church of Marais. 
An old chest of drawers was converted by Clery 
into an altar, two ordinary candlesticks stood on 
each side of the cup, and in them two tallow can- 
dles burned, instead of wax. Before this altar 
kneeled King Louis XYI., lost in thought and 
prayer, and wearing a calm, peaceful face. 

The priest read the mass ; Clery responded as 
sacristan ; and even while the king was receiving 
the elements, the sound of the drums and trum- 
pets was heard without, which awakened Paris that 
morning and told the city that the King of France 
was being led to his execution. Cannon were 
rattling through the streets, and National Guards- 
men were hurrying on foot and on horse along 
the whole of the way that led from the Temple to 
the Place de la Concorde. A rank of men, four deep 
and standing close to one another, armed with 
pikes and other weapons, guarded both sides of 
the street, and made it impossible for those who 
wanted to liberate the king during the ride, to 
come near to him. The authorities knew that one 
of the bravest and most determined partisans of 
the king had arrived in Paris, and that he, in con- 
junction with a number of young and brave-spir- 
ited men, had resolved on rescuing the king at any 
cost, during his ride to the place of execution. 
The utmost precaution&^had been taken to render 
this impossible. Through the dense ranks of the 
National Guard, which to-day was composed of 


* Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 449. 


TO THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY. 


183 


mere sam-culottes, the raging, bloodthirsty men 
of the suburbs drove the carriage in which was 
the king, followed and escorted by National 
Guardsmen on horseback. The windows were 
all closed and the curtains drawn in the houses 
by which the procession passed ; but behind those 
curtained windows it is probable that people 
were upon their knees praying for the unhappy 
man who was now on his way to the scaffold, and 
who was once King of France. 

All at once there arose a movement in this 

I 

dreadful hedge of armed men, through which the 
carriage was passing. Two young men cried: 
“ To us, Frenchmen — to us, all who want to save 
the king 1” 

But the cry found no response. Every one 
looked horrified at his neighbor, and believed he 
i saw in him a spy or a murderer ; fear benumbed 
all their souls, and the silence of death reigned 
around. 

The two young men wanted to flee, to escape 
^ into a house close by. But the door was 
j closed, and before the very door they were cut 
' down and hewn in pieces by the exasperated 
: sans-culoties. 

The carriage of the king rolled on, and Louis 
paid no more attention to objects around him ; 
in the prayer-book which he carried in his hands 
, he read the petitions for the dying, and the 
abbe prayed with him. 

The coachman halted at the foot of the scaf- 
fold, and the king dismounted. A forest of pikes 
surrounded the spot. The drummers beat loudly, 
but the king cried with a loud voice, “ Silence ! ” 
and the noise ceased. On that, Santerre sprang 
forward and commanded them to commence beat- 
ing their drums again, and they obeyed him. The 
king took off his upper garments, and the execu- 
tioners approached to cut off his hair. He quietly 
let this be done, but when they wanted to tie his 
hands, his eyes flashed with anger, and with a 
firm voice he refused to allow them to do so. 

“ Sire,” said the priest, “ I see in this new in- 
sult only a fresh point of resemblance between 
your majesty and our Saviour, who will be your 
recompense and your strength.” 


Louis raised his eyes to heaven with an inde- 
scribable expression of grief and resignation. 
“ Truly,” he said, “ only my recollection of 
Him and His example can enable me to endure 
this new degradation.” 

He gave his hands to the executioner, to let 
them be bound. Then resting on the arm of the 
abbe, he ascended the steps of the scaffold. The 
twenty drummers, who stood around the staging, 
beat their drums ; but the king, advancing to the 
very verge of the scaffold, commanded them with 
a loud voice to be silent, andHhe noise ceased. 

In a tone which was audible across the whole 
square, and which made every word intelligible, 
the king said : “ I die innocent of all the charges 
which are brought against me. I forgive those 
who have caused my death, and I pray God that 
the blood which you spill this day may never 
come back upon the head of France. And you, 
unhappy people-^” 

“ Do not let him go on talking this way,” cried 
Santerre’s commanding voice, interrupting the 
king ; then turning to Louis he said, in an angry 
tone, “ I brought you here not to make speeches, 
but to die ! ” 

The drums beat, the executioners seized the 
king and bent him down. The priest stooped 
over him and murmured some words which only 
God heard, but which a tradition fulj^of admira- 
tion and sympathy has transposed into the im- 
mortal and popular formula which is truer than 
truth and more historical than history ; “ Son of 
St. Louis, ascend to Heaven ! ” 

The drums beat, a glistening object passed 
through the air, a stroke was heard, and blood 
spirted up. The King of France was dead, and 
Samson the executioner lifted up the head, which 
had once borne a crown, to show it to the people. 

A dreadful silence followed for an instant; 
then the populace broke in masses through the 
rows of soldiers, and rushed to the scaffold, in 
order to bear away some remembrances of this 
ever-memorable event. The clothes of the king 
were torn to rags and distributed, and they even 
gave the executioner some gold in exchange for 
locks of hair from the bleeding head. An English- 


184 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


man gave a child fifteen louis d’or for dipping his 
handkerchief in the blood which flowed from the 
scaffold. Another paid thirty louis d’or for the 
peruke of the king.^ 

On the evening of the same day, the execution- 
er Samson, shocked at the terrible deed which he 
had done, went to a priest, paid for masses to be 
said for the repose of the king, then laid down 
his office, retired into solitude, and died in six 
months. His son was his successor in his ghostly 
office, and, in a pious manner, he continued what 
his father began. The masses for the king, in- 
stituted by the two Samsons, continued to be read 
till the year 1840.f ♦ 

On the morrow which followed this dreadful 
day, the “Widow Capet” requested the authori- 
ties to provide for herself and her family a suite 
of mourning of the simplest kind. 

The republic was magnanimous enough to com- 
ply with this request. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

TOULAN. 

The citizen Toulan is on guard again at the 

Temple, and this time with his friend Lepitre. He 

* These details I take from the “ Vossische Zeitung,” 
which, in its issue of the 5th of February, 1793, contains a 
full report of the execution of King Louis XYI., and also 
announces that the court of Prussia will testify its 
grief at the unmerited fate by wearing mourning for a 
period of four weeks. The author of this Avork possesses 
a copy of the ‘‘Yossische Zeitung” of that date, in small 
quarto form, printed on thick, gray paper. In the same 
number of the journal is a fable by Herman Pfeffel, which 
runs in the following strain : 

FIRST MORAL, THEN POLITICAL FREEDOM. 

A FABLE, BY HERMANN PFEFFEL. 

ZEUS AND THE TIGERS. 

To Zeus there came one day 
A deputation of tigers. “ Mighty potentate,” 

Thus spoke their Cicero before the monarch’s throne, 

“ The noble nation of tigers. 

Has long been wearied Avith the lion’s choice as king. 
Does not Nature give us an equal claim Avith his ? 
Therefore, 0 Zeus, declare my race 
To be a people of free citizens ! ” 

“ No,” said the god of gods, “ it cannot be ; 

You are deceiA’^ers, thieves, and murderers, 

Only a good people merits being free.” 

t “ Marie Antoinette et sa Famille,” par Lescure, p. 
643. 


is so trustworthy and blameless a republican, and 
so zealous a citizen, that the republic gives him 
unconditional confidence. The republic had ap- 
pointed him as chief of the bureau for the con- 
trol of the effects of emigres, Toulan is, besides, 
a member of the Convention ; and it is not bis 
fault that, on the day when the decision was made 
respecting the king’s life or death, he was not in 
the Assembly. He had been compelled at that 
time to make a journey into the provinces, to at- 
tach the property of ati aristocrat who had emi- 
grated. Had Toulan been in Paris, he would nat- 
urally have given his voice in favor of the execu- 
tion of the king. He says this freely and openly 
to every one, and every one believes him, for 
Toulan is an entirely unsuspected republican. He 
belougs to the sam-culoltes^ and takes pride in not 
being dressed better than the meanest citizen. 
He belongs to the friends of Marat, and Simon 
the cobbler is always happy when Toulan has the 
watch in the Temple ; for Toulan is such a jovial, 
merry fellow, he can make such capital jokes and 
laugh so heartily at those of others. They have 
such fine times when Toulan is there, and the 
sport is the greatest when his friend Lepitre is 
with him on service in the Temple. Then the two 
have the grandest sport of all ; they even have 
little plays, which are so funny that Simon has to 
laugh outright, and even the turnkey Tison, and 
his wife, forget to keep guard, and leave the glass 
door through which they have been watching the 
royal family, in order to be spectators at Toulan’s 
little farces. 

“ These are jolly days when you are both in the 
Temple,” said Simon, “ and you cannot blame me 
if I like to have you here, and put you on service 
pretty often.” 

“ Oh, we do not blame you for that,” said Tou- 
lan, “ on the other hand, we particularly like being 
with you, you are such a splendid fellow ! ” 

“ And then,” adds Lepitre to this, “ it is so 
pleasant to see the proud she-wolf and her young 
ones, and to set them down a little. These peo- 
ple, when they were living in the Tuileries, have 
turned up their noses at us often enough, and 
acted as if we were only dust that they must blow 


TOULAN. 


185 


away from their exalted presence. It is time that 
they should feel a little that they are only dust 
for us to blow away ! ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” chimed in Toulan, “ it is high 
time that they should feel it ! ” 

“ And you both understood that matter capi- 
tally,” said Simon, with a laugh, “ I always see 
that it particularly provokes the queen to have 
you on service, and I like that, and I am especially 
glad to have you here.” 

“ I’ve thought out a joke for to-day,” said Tou- 
lan. “I will teach the widow to smoke. You 
know, brother Simon, that she always pretends 
not to be able to bear the smell of tobacco, she 
shall learn to bear it. I will hand her a paper 
cigarette to-day, and tell her that if she does not 
want us to smoke, she must smoke with us.” 

“ Splendid joke ! ” said Simon, with a loud 
laugh. 

“ But there’s one thing to be thought of about 
that,” said Lepitre, reflectively. “ The widow 
Capet might perhaps promise to smoke, if we 
would tell her that we would never smoke after- 
ward. But then we should not keep our word, of 
course.” 

“What! you say we should not keep our 
word!” said Toulan, in amazement. “We are 
republicans ; more than that, we are sans-culottes ! 
and shall we not keep our word ? ought we not 
to be better than the cursed aristocrats, that 
never kept their word to the people ? How can 
you disgrace us and yourself so much ? Ask our 
noble friend and brother Simon, whether he is of 
the opinion that a free man ought not to keep his 
word, even if he has only given it to a woman in 
prison.” 

“ I am of that opinion,” said Simon, with dig- 
nity. “ I swore to myself that the king should 
lose his head, and I kept my word. I promised 
the she-v/olf that she should be hanged, and I 
hope to keep this promise too. If I keep my 
word to her in what is bad, I must do so also in 
what is good. If a republican promises any thing, 
he must hold to it.” 

“ Right, Simon, you are a noble and wise man. 
It remains fixed, then, that the queen shall smoke. 


but if we have our joke out, we shall not smoke 
any more.” 

“ I will put up a placard on the door : ‘ Smoking 
forbidden in the anteroom of the she-wolf.’ ” 

“ Good,” cried Toulan,- “ that is worthy of 
you.” 

“Let us go up now,” said Simon, “the two 
other sentries are up-stairs already, they will 
wonder that you come so late, but I do like to 
chat with you. Come on, let’s go up. I’ll stay 
there to see the joke. But wait a moment, there 
is something new. It has been proposed that 
not so many guards are needed to watch the 
Capets, and that it has the appearance as if the 
government was afraid of these howling women 
and this little monkey, whom the crazy royalists 
call King Louis XYII. It is very likely that they 
will reduce the guard to two.” 

“ Yery good,” said Toulan, approvingly. — 
“ What’s the use of wearying out so many other 
men and condemning them to such idleness ? We 
cannot be making jokes all the time ; and then 
again it is not pleasant always looking on these 
people’s long faces.” 

“ So only two guards,” said Lepitre; “ but that 
seems to me rather too few, for what if the widow 
should succeed in winning them over and getting 
them to help her escape ? ” 

“ Impossible ! ” cried Simon, “ she’ll never 
come around me, and as long as I have my eyes 
open, she and her brood will never get away. No 
one can come down the staircase without my hear- 
ing and seeing it, for you know my rooms are 
near the stairs, and the door is always open and 
I am always there, and then there is the turnkey 
Ricard, who watches the door that leads to the 
court like a cerberus. Then there are three sen- 
tries at the doors leading from the inner court to 
the outer one, and the four sentries at the doors 
leading from the outer court to the street. No, 
no, my friends, if the she-wolf wants to escape, 
she must use magic, and make wings grow on her 
shoulders and fly away.” 

“ That is good, I like that,” said Toulan, spring- 
ing up the staircase. 

“ And that settles my doubts too,” said Lepi- 


186 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


tre. “ I should think two official guards would 
suffice, for it is plain that she cannot escape. 
Simon is on the look-out, and it is plain that the 
she- wolf cannot transform herself into an eagle.” 

“Well said,” laughed Simon; “here we are 
before the door, let’s go in and have our fun.” 

He dashed the door open noisily, and went into 
the room with the two men. Two officials were 
sitting in the middle of the room at the table, and 
were actively engaged playing cards. Through 
the open door you could look into the sitting-room 
of the Capet family. The queen was sitting on 
the divan behind the round table, clothed in her 
sad suit of mourning, with a black cap upon her 
gray locks. 

She was busy in dictating an exercise to the 
dauphin from a book which she held in her hand. 
The prince, also clad in black and with a broad 
crape about his arm, sat upon a chair by her 
side. His whole attention was directed to his 
work, and he was visibly making an effort to 
write as well as possible, for a glowing red suf- 
fused his cheeks. 

On the other side of the queen sat Madame 
Elizabeth ; near her the Princess Maria Theresa, 
both busy in preparing some clothing for the 
queen. 

No one of the group appeared to notice the 
loud opening of the door, no one observed the 
entering forms, or cast even a momentary glance 
at them. 

But Toulan was not contented with this ; he 
demanded nothing less than that the she-wolf 
should look at him. He hurried through the 
anteroom with a threatening tread, advanced to 
the door of the sitting-room, and stopped upon 
the threshold, making such a deep and ceremo- 
nious bow, and swinging his arm so comically, 
that Simon was compelled to laugh aloud. 

“Madame,” cried Toulan, “I have the inex- 
pressible honor of greeting your grace.” 

“ He is a brick, a perfect brick,” roared Simon. 

Lepitre had gone to the window, and turned 
his back upon the room ; he was perhaps too 
deficient in spirit to join in the joke. Nobody 
paid any attention to him ; nobody saw him take 


a little packet from his coat-pocket, and slide it 
slowly and carefully behind the wooden box that 
stood beneath the window. 

“ Madame,” cried Toulan, in a still louder voice, 
“ I fear your grace has not heard my salutation.” 

The queen slowly raised her eyes, and turned 
them to the man who was still standing upon the 
threshold. “ I heard it,” she said, coldly, “ go on 
writing, my son.” And she went on in the sen- 
tence that she had just then begun to dictate. 

“ I am so happy at being heard by Madame 
Veto that I shall have to celebrate it by a little 
bonfire ! ” said Toulan, taking a cigar from his 
breast-pocket. “You see, my friends, that I am 
a very good courtier, though I have the honor to 
be a sans-culottes. In the presence of handsome 
ladies I only smoke cigars ! Halloo ! bring me a 
little fire.” 

One of the officials silently passed him his long 
pipe. Toulan lighted his cigar, placed himself at 
the threshold, and blew great clouds of smoke 
into the chamber. 

The ladies still continued to sit quietly without 
paying any attention to Toulan. The queen dic- 
tated, and the dauphin wrote. The queen only 
interrupted herself in this occupation, when she 
had to cough and wipe her eyes, which the smoke 
filled with tears. 

Toulan had followed every one of her move- 
ments with an amused look. “ Madame does not 
appear to take any pleasure in my bonfire ! ” he 
said. “ Will madame not smoke ?•” 

The queen made no reply, but quietly went on* 
with her dictation. 

“ Madame,” cried Toulan, laughing loudly, “ I 
should like to smoke a pipe of peace with you, as 
our brown brethren in happy, free America do — 
madame, I beg you to do me the honor to smoke 
a pipe of peace with me.” 

A flash lightened in the eyes which the queen 
now directed to Toulan. “ You are a shameless 
fellow ! ” she said. 

“ Hear that,” said Simon, “ that is what I call 
abusing you.” 

“ On the contrary, it delights me,” cried Tou- 
lan, “for you will confess that it would be jolly 


TOULAN. 


187 


if she should smoke now, and I tell you, she will 
d smoke.” 

' He advanced some paces into the room, and 
4 made his deep bow again. 

I “ He understands manners as well as if he had 
been a rascally courtier himself,” said Simon, 
laughing. “It is a splendid joke.” 

The two princesses had arisen at the entrance 
1 of Toulan, and laid their sewing-work aside, 
(j A ball of white cotton had fallen to the ground 
j from the lap of one of them, and rolled through 
I the room toward Toulan. 

He picked it up, and bowed to the princesses. 
“ May I view this little globe,” he said, “ as a re- 
minder of the favor of the loveliest ladies of 
France? Oh, yes, I see in your roguish smile 
that I may, and I thank you,” said Toulan, press- 
ing the round ball to his lips, and then putting it 
j into his breast-pocket. 

'i “He plays as well as the fellows do in the 

i| theatre,” said Simon, laughing. 

I “Go into our sleeping-room,” said Marie An- 

I toinette, turning to the princesses. “ It is enough 

;! for me to have to bear these indignities — go, 

i my son, accompany your aunt.” 

: The dauphin stood up, pressed a kiss upon the 

1 hand of his mother, and followed the two pi-in- 
i' 

• cesses, who had gone into the adjoining apartment. 

! “ Dear aunt,” whispered the dauphin, “ is this 

1 bad man the good friend who — ” 

> “ Hush ! ” whispered Madame Elizabeth, “ hush ! 

j Madame Tison is listening.” 

I And, in fact, at the glass-door, which led from 
i the sleeping-room to the little corridor, stood 
I Madame Tison, looking with sharp, searching 
1 glances into the chamber. 

j After the princesses had left the room, Toulan 
I approached still closer to the queen, and taking 
a cigar from his breast-pocket, he handed it to 
the queen. “ Take it, madame,” he said, “ and 
do me the honor of smoking a duet with me ! ” 

“ I do not smoke, sir,” replied the queen, cold- 
ly and calmly. “ I beg you to go into the ante- 
room. The Convention has not, so far as I un- 
derstand, ordered the officers of the guard to 
tarry in my sitting-room.” 


“ The Convention has not ordered it, nor has it 
forbidden it. So I remain ! ” 

He took a chair, seated himself in the middle 
of the room, and rolled out great clouds of smoke, 
which filled Simon with unspeakable delight when 
they compelled Marie Antoinette to cough vio- 
lently. 

“ Madame Capet, you would not be so sensi- 
tive to smoke if you would only join me. I beg 
you, therefore, to take this cigar.” 

The queen repeated calmly, “ I do not smoke.” 

“ Yon mistake, madame, you do smoke.” 

“ See the jolly fellow,” exclaimed Simon, “that 
is splendid.” 

“ I will show you at once that you do smoke,” 
continued Toulan. “ Madame, if you will do me 
the honor to join me in smoking a cigar, I will 
give you my word as a republican and a sans- 
culottes^ that neither I nor my brothers will ever 
smoke here again.” 

“ I do not believe you,” said the queen, shak- 
ing her head. 

“ Not believe me ? Would you believe it if the 
citizen Simon were to repeat it ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the queen, fixing her great, sad 
eyes upon Simon, “if the citizen Simon should 
confirm it, I would believe it, for he is a trust- 
worthy man, who I believe never breaks his 
word.” 

“ Oh ! only see how well the Austrian under- 
stands our noble brother Simon,” cried Lepitre. 

“ Yes, truly, it seems so,” said Simon, who had 
been flattered by this praise to consent to what he 
had no inclination for. “ Well, I give my word to 
Widow Capet, as a republican and a sans-culoUeSy 
that there shall be no smoking in the anteroom 
after this time, if she will do my friend Toulan the 
favor of smoking a pipe of peace with him.” 

“ I believe your word,” said the queen, with a 
gentle inclination of her head ; and then turning 
to Toulan, she continued, “ sir — ” 

“ There are no ‘ sirs ’ here, only ‘ citizens,’ ” in- 
terrupted the cobbler. 

“ Citizen Toulan,” said the queen, changing her 
expression, “ give me the cigar, I see that I was 
wrong, I do smoke ! ” 


188 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Simon cried aloud with laughter and delight, 
and could scarcely control himself, when, kneeling 
before the queen, as the players do in the grand 
plays at the theatre, he handed her a cigar. 

But he did not see the supplicatory look which 
Toulan fixed upon the queen ; he did not see the 
tears which started into his eyes, nor hear her 
say, during his inordinate peals of laughter, “ I 
thank you, my faithful one ! ” 

“ Is it enough if I take the cigar in my mouth, 
or must I burn it ? ” asked the queen. 

“Certainly, she must burn it,” cried Simon. 
“ Light the cigar for her. Citizen Toulan.” 

Toulan drew a bit of paper from his pocket, 
folded it together, kindled it, and gave it to the 
queen. Then, as soon as the dry cigar began to 
burn, he put out the light, and threw it carelessly 
upon the table. 

The queen put the little smoking cigarette into 
her mouth. “ Bravo, bravo ! ” shouted the offi- 
cials and Simon. “Bravo, Citizen Toulan is a 
perfect brick I He has taught Widow Capet how 
to smoke.” 

“ I told you I would,” said Toulan, proudly. 
“ Widow Capet has had to comply with our will, 
and that is enough. You need not go on,/4ia- 
dame. You have acknowledged our power, and 
that is all we wanted. That is enough, Simon, is 
it not ? She does not need to smoke any longer, 
and we, too, must stop.” 

“No, she does not need to smoke any longer, 
and there will be no more smoking in the ante- 
chamber.” 

The queen took the paper cigarette from her 
mouth, put out the burning end, and laid the re- 
maining portion in her work-basket. 

“ Citizen Toulan,” said she, “ I will keep this 
cigar as a remembrancer of this hour, and if you 
ever smoke here again, I shall show it to ybu.” 

“ I should like to see this Austrian woman 
doubting the word of a sans-culottes,'*^ cried Simon. 

“And I too, Simon,” replied Toulan, going 
back into the anteroom. “We will teach her 
that she must trust our word. You see that I 
am a good teacher.” 

“ An excellent one,” cried Simon ; “ I must 


compliment you on it, citizen. But if you have 
no objections, we will play a game or two of cards 
with the citizens here.” 

“ All right,” replied Toulan. “ But I hope you 
have got the new kind of cards, which have no 
kings and queens on them. For, I tell you, I do 
not play with the villanous old kind.” 

“Nor I,” chimed in Lepitre. “It makes me 
mad to see the old stupids with their crowns on 
that are on the old kind of cards.” 

“You are a pair of out-and-out republicans,” 
said Simon, admiringly. “ Truly, one might learn 
of you how a sans-culottes ought to bear him- 
self.” 

“Well, you can calm yourselves about these, 
brothers,” said one of the officials ; “ we have no 
tyrant-cards — we have the new cards of the re- 
public. See there ! instead of the king, there is 
a sans-culottps ; instead of the queen, we have a 
‘ knitter,’^ and for the jack, we have a Swiss sol- 
dier, for they were the menials of the old mon- 
archy.” f 

“ That is good ; well, we will play then,” cried 
Toulan, with an air of good-humor. 

They all took their places at the table, while 
the queen took up the sewing on which the prin- 
cesses had been engaged before. 

After some time, when the thread with which - 
she was sewing was exhausted, Marie Antoinette 
raised her eyes and turned them to the men, who 
had laid their pipes aside, and were zealously en- 
gaged upon their cards. The mien of the queen 
was no longer so calm and rigidly composed as it 
had been before, and when she spoke, there was 
a slight quivering discernible in her voice. 

“ Citizen Toulan,” she said, “ I beg you to give 

* The market-women and hucksters had the privilege 
of claiming the first seats on the spectators’ platform, 
near the guillotine. They sat there during the execu- 
tions, knitting busily on long stockings, while looking at 
the bloody drama before them. Every time that a head 
was cut off and dropped into the basket beneath the 
knife, the women made a mark in their knitting- work, 
and thus converted their stockings into a kind of calen- 
dar, which recorded the number of persons executed. 
From this circumstance the market-women received the 
name of “knitters.” 

t Historical.— See “M6moires de la Marquise de Crequi,” 
vol. iii. 


TOULAN. 


189 


II me the ball of thread again. I have no more, 
[j and this dress is in a wretched condition ; I must 
ij mend it.” 

•; Toulan turned toward her with a gesture of 
impatience. “ You disturb me, madame, and 
put me out in the game. What are you say- 
ing ? ” 

“ I asked you. Citizen Toulan, to give me the 
thread again, because, without it, I cannot work.” 

I “ Oh ! the ball which little Miss Capet gave 
3 me a short time ago. And so you won’t let me 
keep a remembrance of the pretty girl ? ” 

I must mend this dress,” said the queen, 
gently. 

“Well, if you must, you must,” growled Tou- 
lan, rising. “Wait a moment, brothers, till I 
carry her the ball.” 

“ What do you want to get up for ? ” asked 
j Simon. “ You can throw it from here.” 

“ Or give it a roll like a ball,” added Lepitre . 

“ That is a good idea,” cried Toulan, “ I’ll have 
a little game of nine-pins. I am quite at home 
I ’ there, and can do it well. Now look sharp ! I 
i will contrive to roll the ball between the four 
j feet of the table, and strike the foot of the 
j queen.” 

! “ There is no queen,” cried Lepitre, passion- 

I ately. 

“ I am speaking of the game. Citizen Lepitre ; 
I do me the pleasure of not making yourself 
; an ass. Now look, and see me roll it as I 
I said ! ” 

I “ Well, go ahead; we should like to see you do 
I it,” cried Simon. 

“ Yes, we would like to see you do it,” chimed 

I in the officials, laying down their cards. 

i 

! Toulan now drew out of his breast-pocket a 
I black ball of silk, and counted “ One, two, three ! ” 

I He then gave it a skilful roll across the floor. 
With attention and laughing looks, they all 
watched it take its course across the waxed floor, 
as it moved just where Toulan had said it would. 

“ Bravo, bravo ! ” shouted the men, as the ball 
struck the foot of the queen, who stooped down 
slowly and picked it up. 

“ Toulan is a jolly good fellow,” cried Simon, 


striking the table with his flsts in an ecstasy of 
delight. “ But I declare it seems to me that 
the ball is a good deal larger now than it was 
before.” 

“ It may be,” answered Toulan, emphatically. 
“Every thing grows and enlarges itself, that a 
true and genuine sans-cuhttes carries next to his 
heart.” 

“Well said,” replied Lepitre. ’^‘But listen to 
me, I want to make a proposition to you. I 
must say that it is hard work — playing cards 
without smoking.” 

“ I find it so, too,” sighed Toulan. 

“I rather think we all do,” chimed in the 
others. 

“ But we must keep our word, or else the she- 
wolf will think that we republicans are no better 
than the aristocrats were ! ” 

“Yes, we must keep our word,” said Lepitre, 
“ and that is why I wanted to make the proposi- 
tion that we go out and establish ourselves in the 
entry. We can put the table close to the door, 
and then we are certainly safe — that no one can 
step in. What do you say, brother Simon ? ” 

“ I say that it is a very good plan, and that 
we will carry it into execution directly. Come, 
friends, let us take up the table, and carry it out. 
If the dogs are on the watch outside, the badger 
does not creep out of his house. Come, it is 
much pleasanter out there, and we are not am- 
bitious of the honor of looking at Widow Capet 
all the time. We are perfectly satisfied, if we do 
not see her. I hope there will be an end of this 
tedious service, and that she will soon go to the 
place whither Louis Capet has already gone.” 

“ Or,” cried Toulan, laughing, “ she must 
change herself into an eagle, and fly out of the 
window. Come, brothers, I long for my pipe. 
Let us carry the table out into the entry.” 

Simon opened the door that led out upon the 
landing, the officials took up the table, and Tou- 
lan and Lepitre the wooden stools. One quick 
look they cast into the room of the queen, whose 
eyes were turned to them. A sudden movement 
of Lepitre’s hand pointed to the bench beneath 
the window : a movement of Toulan’s lips said 


190 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ To-morrow ; ” then they both turned away ; went 
with their stools out upon the landing, and closed 
the door. 

The queeu held her breath and listened. She 
heard them moving the chairs outside, and push- 
ing the table up against the door, and detected 
Simon’s harsh voice, saying, “ Now that we have 
put a gigantic wooden lock . on the door, let us 
smoke and play.” 

The queen sprang up. “ God bless my faithful 
one,” whispered she ; “ yes, God bless him ! ” 

She went hastily into the anteroom, pressed her 
hand in behind the bench beneath the window, 
took out the package which Lepitre had placed 
there, and with a timid, anxious look, stepped 
back into her room. Here she unfolded the bun- 
dle. It consisted of a boy’s soiled dress, an old 
peruke, and an old felt hat. 

The queen looked at it all with the utmost at- 
tention; then, after casting one long, searching 
look through the room, she hastened to the divan, 
pushed back the already loosened cover of the 
seat, concealed the things beneath it, and then 
carefully smoothed down the upholstery again. 

She now hurried to the door of the sleeping- 
room, and was going to open it hastily. But she 
bethought herself in time. Her face showed too 
much emotion, her voice might betray her. Ma- 
dame Tison was certainly lurking behind the glass 
door, and might notice her excitement. 

Marie Antoinette again put on her ordinary 
sad look, opened the door slowly and gravely, and 
quietly entered the sleeping-room. Her great 
eyes, whose brightness had long since been extin- 
guished by her tears, slowly passed around the 
chamber, rested for a moment on the glass door, 
descried behind it the spying face of Tison, and 
turned to the two princesses, who were sitting 
with the dauphin on the little divan in the 
comer. 

“ Mamma,” asked the boy, “ are the bad men 
gone ? ” 

“ Do not call them so, my child,” replied Marie 
Antoinette, gently. “ These men only do what 
others order them to do.” 

“ Then the others are bad, mamma,” said the 


boy, quickly. “ Oh, yes, very bad, for they make 
my dear mamma weep so much.” 

“I do not weep about them,” answered his 
mother. “ I weep because your father is no more 
with us. Think about your father, my son, and 
never forget that he has commanded us to forgive 
his and our enemies.” 

“ And never to take vengeance on them,” added 
the boy, with a grave look beyond his years, as 
he folded bis hands. “ Yes, I have sworn it to 
my dear papa, and I shall keep my word. I 
mean never to take vengeance on our enemies.” 

“ Sister,” said the queen, after a pause, “ I want 
to ask you to help me a little in my work. You 
know how to mend, and I want to learn of you. 
Will you come into the sitting-room ? ” 

“ And we, too, mamma,” asked the dauphin, 
“ may we not stay here ? Theresa has promised 
to tell me an interesting story if I did my exam- 
ples in arithmetic correctly, and I have done 
them.” 

“Well, she may tell you the story. We will 
leave the door open so that we can see you; 
for you know, my children, you are now the only 
comfort left to your aunt and me. Come, sis- 
ter ! ” 

She turned slowly and went into the next room, 
followed by Madame Elizabeth. 

“ Why, what does this mean ? ” asked the prin- 
cess, in amazement, as she saw the anteroom de- 
serted and the door closed. 

“All Am work, Elizabeth — all the work of this 
noble, faithful Toulan. He went through a whole 
farce in order to get the people out of here, and 
to make them swear that they never would smoke 
after this in the anteroom. Oh, I shall never be 
able to repay him for what he has done for us at 
the peril of his life.” 

“We will pray for’ him every morning and 
evening,” replied the pious Elizabeth. “But 
tell me, sister, did Toulan keep our ball of 
thread ? ” 

“Yes, sister, and succeeded in giving me an- 
other in exchange for it. Here it is. To-night, 
w^hen the guards are asleep, we will ynwind it 
and see what it contains. But here are other im- 




THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE. 


191 


portant things which we must examine. Here, 
this half-burned light and this cigarette ! Let us 
be on the watch that no one surprise us.” 

She went again to the threshold of the sleep- 
^ ing-room. 

“Can you hear me talk, children ? Nod with 

your head if you heard me. Good. If Tison 

comes in, speak to her loudly, and call her by 

name, so that we may hear.” 

^ ’ 

“And now, sister,” she continued, turning to 
\ the table, “let us see what Toulan has sent us. 
First, the cigar-light ! ” 

She unfolded the paper, one side of which was 
' burned, and showed a black, jagged edge. 

“ A letter from M. de Jarjayes,” she said, and 
then, in a subdued voice, she hastily read : “ I have 
. spoken with the noble messenger whom you sent 
to me with a letter. He has submitted his plan 
to me, and I approve it entirely, and am ready to 
. undertake any thing that is demanded of me in 
behalf of those to whom my life, my property, and 
my blood belong, and who never shall have occa- 
sion to doubt my fidelity. The ‘ true one ’ will 
"bring you to-morrow every thing that is needful, 
and talk the matter over with you. — J.” “ And 

now the cigarette,” said the queen, taking it out 
'Of her basket. 

“Let us first tear the paper to pieces,” said 
Princess Elizabeth, warningly. 

“No, no, Tison would find the bits, and think 
them suspicious. I will hide the paper in my 
dress-pocket, and this evening when we have a 
light we will burn it. Quickly now, the cigar ! ” 

“ A paper cigarette ! ” said Elizabeth. 

“ Yes, and see on the outer paper, ‘ Unroll 
carefully ! ’ ” 

And with extreme caution Marie Antoinette 
removed the thin external covering. Beneath it 
was another, closely written over; this the queen 
proceeded to unfold. 

“ What is it ? ” asked the Princess Elizabeth, 
impatiently. 

“ See,” said Marie Antoinette, with a faint 
smile : “ ‘ Plan for the escape of the royal family. 
To learn by heart, and then to burn.’ Oh ! sister, 
do you believe that escape is possible for us ? ” 


At this instant Simon was heard outside, sing 
ing with his loud, coarse voice : 

“ Madame a sa tour monte 
Ne sait quand descendra, 

Madame Yeto la dansera.” * 

The queen shuddered, and Madame Elizabeth 
folded her hands and prayed in silence. 

“ You hear the dreadful answer, sister, that 
this sans-culotte gives to my question ! Well, so 
long as ihere is a breath left within us we must 
endeavor to save the life of King Louis XYII. 
Come, sister, we will read this plan for our es- 
cape, which the faithful Toulan has made.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE. 

Marie Antoinette and Madame Elizabeth lis- 
tened again at the door, and as Simon was just 
then beginning a new verse of his ribald song, 
they carefully unrolled the paper and spread it 
out before them. 

“ Read it to me, sister,” said the queen. “ My 
eyes are bad and pain me very much ; and then 
the words make more impression when I hear 
them than when I read them ; I beg you therefore 
to read it.” 

In a light whisper the princess began to read 
“ The Plan of Escape.” “ The queen and Prin- 
cess Elizabeth must put on men’s clothes. The 
necessary garments are already in their posses- 
sion, for T. and L. have within the last few days 
secreted them in the cushions and mattresses. In 
addition, the queen receives to-day a dirty, torn 
boy’s suit and a peruke, and a pair of soiled 
children’s shoes. These are for the dauphin and 
Madame Royale ; and if the queen ftoks atten- 
tively at the things, she will find that they are 
exact copies of the clothing in which the two 
children appear who always accompany the 

* “ Madame will take her turn, 

She knows not when it will come, 

But Madame Yeto will swing.” 


192 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


lampligliter into the tower and assist him in 
lighting the lamps. So much for the clothing. 
The plan of escape is as follows : To-morrow even- 
ing, at six o’clock, the royal children will change 
their dress in the little tower next to the chamber 
of the queen.. In their soiled costume they will 
remain within the tower, whither it is known 
that Tison and his wife never come, and will wait 
there until some one gives them a signal and 
calls them. Toulan and Lepitre will arrange 
to have the watch again to-morrow in the tower. 
At a quarter before seven in the evening, Toulan 
will give a pinch of snuff to Madame Tison and 
her husband, who are both passionately fond of 
it, and they will speedily take it as they always do. 
This pinch of snuff will consist entirely of colored 
opium. They will fall into a heavy sleep, which 
will last at least seven hours, and during this time 
the flight of all the members of the royal family 
must be accomplished — ” 

“ Wait a moment, sister,” whispered the queen, 
“ I feel dizzy, and my heart beats violently, as if 
we were engaged now in the very execution of the 
plan. It seems to me as if, in the darkness of the 
dreadful night which surrounds us, a glimmer of 
hope was suddenly appearing, and my eyes are 
blinded with it. Oh, sister, do you really think 
it possible that we can escape this place of tor- 
ment ? ” 

“ Escape we will certainly, my dear sister,” an- 
swered Elizabeth, gently, “ but it lies in God’s 
hands whether it is our bodies or our souls only 
that will escape. If we do not succeed, they will 
kill us, and then our freed souls will ascend to God. 
Oh, my noble queen and sister, let us pray that 
God would give us courage and steadfastness to 
hope in Him and to conform to His will.” 

“ Yes, sister, let us pray,” said the queen, fold- 
ing her hands, and reverentially bending her head. 
Then after ^ pause, in which they could hear from 
without the noisy laughter of Simon and his com- 
rades, the queen raised herself up, and her coun- 
tenance had regained its wonted calm and grave 
expression. 

“And now, Elizabeth, read on further. Let us 
hear the continuation of the plan.” 


Madame Elizabeth took the paper and read on 
in a whispering voice : “ As soon as Tison and 

his wife have fallen asleep, the queen and Ma- 
dame Elizabeth will put on their clothes. Over 
the men’s garments they will throw the cloaks 
which Toulan brought yesterday, and these cloaks 
will disguise their gait and size. But care must 
be taken that the tri-colored sashes of the com- 
missaries which Lepitre brought yesterday with 
the admission-cards of the same authorities, should 
peep out from beneath the cloaks so as to be visible 
to every one. Thus arrayed, the two ladies will pass 
by the sentry, showing him the card as they go 
out (meanwhile talking with Lepitre), leave the 
Temple, and go with Lepitre to the Rue de la 
Conderie, where M. de Jarjayes will be waiting to 
conduct the ladies farther.” 

“But the children,” whispered the queen, 
“ do the children not accompany us ? Oh ! they 
ought not to think that I would leave this place 
while my dear children are compelled to remain 
here. What is to be done with the children, 
Elizabeth ? ” 

“We shall soon learn that, sister ; allow me to 
read on. ‘ At seven o’clock, as soon as the guard 
is changed, a man disguised as a lamplighter, with 
his tin filler in his hand, will appear at the gate 
of the Temple, knock loudly and demand of the 
guard that his children, who had this day been tak- 
ing care of the lantern, should be allowed to» come 
out. On this, Toulan will bring the dauphin 
and Madame Royale in their changed costume, 
and while delivering them over to the supposed 
lamplighter he will scold him soundly for not tak- 
ing care of the lanterns himself, but giving it to 
the children. This is the plan whose execu- 
tion is possible and probable, if every thing is 
strictly followed. , Before the affair is discovered, 
there will be at least seven hours’ advantage and 
the royal family will be able, with the passes 
already secured by M. Jarjayes, to be a long way 
off before their flight will be discovered by Tison. 
In a secure house, whither Toulan will lead them, 
the royal family will find simple citizen’s cloth- 
ing. Without exciting any stir, and accompanied 
by Messieurs Jarjayes and Toulan, they will 


THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE. 


193 


reach Normandy. A packet-boat, furnished by an 
English friend, lies in readiness to receive the 
royal family and take them to their — ” ’ 

* “ Good-day, Madame Tison ! ” cried the dau- 

! phin loudly, “ good-day, my dear Madame Tison ! ” 

Madame Elizabeth hastily concealed the paper 
in her bosom, and Marie Antoinette had scarcely 
I time to hide the ball of thread in her pocket, when 
‘ Tison appeared upon the threshold of the door, 
lookdtt with her sharp lynx-eyes around, and then 
^ fixed them upon the two ladies. 

! She saw that Marie Antoinette did not display 
^ her accustomed dignified calmness, and that 
Elizabeth’s pale cheeks were unusually' red. 

“ Something is going on,” said the spy to herself, 
and what does it mean that to-day the commissa- 
ries are not in the anteroom, and that they let 
these women carry on their chattering entirely 
unwatched V ” 

“Madame has been reading?” asked Tison, 
i subjecting every object upon the table before 
I which the ladies were sitting, to a careful scrutiny. 
“ Madame has been reading,” she repeated ; “ I 
heard paper rattling, and I see no book.” 

; You are unden a mistake,” replied Madame 
Elizabeth, “ we have not been reading, we have 
been sewing ; but supposing we were reading, is 
there any wrong in that ? Have they made any 
law that forbids that ? ” 

“ No,” answered Tison, “ no — I only won- 
dered how people could rattle paper^and there be 
none there, but all the same — the ladies of course 
have a right to read, and we must be satisfied with 
f that.” 

And she went out, looking right and left like 
& hound on the scent, and searching every corner 
of the room. 

“ I must see what kind of officials we have here 
to-day,” said Tison to herself, slipping through 

the little side-door and through the corridor; “ I 

0 

shouldn’t wonder if it were Toulan and Lepitre 
again, for every time when they two — right ! ” she 
ejaculated, looking through the outer door, “ right ! 
it is they, Toulan and Lepitre. I must see what 
Simon’s wife has to say to that.” 

She slipped down the broad staircase, and 


passed through the open door into the porter’s 
lodge. Madame Simon, one of the most savage of 
the knitters, had shortly returned from the guillo- 
tine, and was sitting upon her rush chair, busily 
counting on a long cotton stocking which she 
held in her hand. 

“ How many heads to-day ? ” asked Tison. 

Madame Simon slowly shook her head, deco- 
rated with a white knit cap. 

“ It is hardly worth the pains,” she said dis- 
mally, — “ the machine works badly, and the 
judges are neglectful. Only five cars to-day, and 
on every one only seven persons.” 

“ What ! ” cried Tison, “ only thirty-five heads 
to-day in all ? ” 

“ Yes, only thirty-five heads,” repeated Madame 
Simon, shaking her head; “I have just been 
counting on my stocking, and I find only thirty- 
five seam-stitches, for every seam-stitch means a 
head. For such a little affair we have had to sit 
six hours in the wet and cold on the platform. 
The machine works too slowly, I say — altogether 
too slowly. The judges are easy, and there is no 
more pleasure to be derived from the executions.” 

“ They must be stirred up,” said Tison with a 
fiendish look ; “ your husband must speak with 
his friend, citizen Marat, and tell him that his best 
friends the knitters, and most of all, Simon’s wife, 
are dissatisfied, and if it goes on so, the women 
will rise and hurry all the men to the guillotine. 
That will stir them up, for they do respect the 
knitters, and if they fear the devil, they fear yet 
more his proud grandmother, and every one of us 
market-women and knitters is the devil’s grand- 
mother.” 

“Yes, they do respect us and they shall,” said 
Madame Simon, setting her glistening needles in 
motion again, and working slowly on the stock- 
ing ; “ I will myself speak with citizen Marat, and 
believe me, I will fire him up, and then we shall 
have better play, and see more cars driven up to 
the guillotine. We must keep our eyes well open, 
and denounce all suspicious characters.” 

“ I have my eyes always open,” cried Tison, 
with a coarse laugh, “ and I suspect traitors be- 
fore they have committed any thing. There, for 


13 


1D4 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


example, are the two officials, Toulan and Lepitre, 
do you have confidence in them ? ” 

“ I have no confidence in them whatever, and 
I have never had any confidence in them,” an- 
swered Madame Simon, with dignity, and setting 
her needles in more rapid motion. “ In these times 
you must trust nobody, and least of all those who 
are so very earnest to keep guard over the Aus- 
trian woman ; for a true republican despises the 
aristocracy altogether too much to find it agree- 
able to be with such scum, and shows it as much 
as he can, but Toulan is always wanting to be 
there. Wait a moment, and I will tell you how 
many times Toulan and Lepitre have kept guard 
the present month.” 

She drew a little memorandum-book from her 
reticule, which hung by black bands from her 
brown hairy arm, and turned over the leaves. 
“ There, here it is,” she said. “ To-day is the 
20th of February, and the two men have already 
kept guard eight times the present month. That 
is three times as many as they need to do. 
Every one of the officials who are appointed to 
keep guard in the Temple is obliged to serve 
only once a week, and both of these traitors 
are now here for the eighth time. And my 
husband is so stupid and so blinded that he 
believes this prattler Toulan when he tells him he 
comes here merely to be with citizen Simon ; but 
they cannot come round me with their talk ; they 
cannot throw dust in my eyes. I shall keep them 
open, wide open, let me tell you.” 

‘‘ They are not sitting inside in the antecham- 
ber to-day,” whispered Tison, “ but outside on 
the landing, and they have closed the door of the 
anteroom, so that the Austrian has been entirely 
alone and unobserved these hours.” 

“ Alone ! ” cried the knitter, and her polished 
needles struck so violently against each other 
that you could hear them click. My husband 
cannot be to blame for that ; Toulan must have 
talked him into it, and he must have a reason for 
it ; he must have a reason, and if it is only from 
his having pity upon her, that is enough and 
more than enough to bring him under suspicion 
and to build an accusation upon. He must be 


removed, say I. There shall no such compassion 
ate worms as he creep into the Temple. I will 
clear them out — I will clear them out with 
human blood ! ” 

She looked so devilish, her eyes glared so with 
such a cruel coldness, and such a fiendish smile 
played upon her pale, thin lips, that even Ma- 
dame Tison was afraid of her, and felt as if a 
cold, poisonous spider was creeping slowly over 
her heart. ^ 

“They are sitting still outside, you say?” 
asked Madame Simon, after a pause. 

“ Yes, they are still sitting outside upon the 
landing, and the Austrian woman is all this time 
alone unwatched with her brood, and she will be 
alone for two hours yet, for there is no change of 
guard till then.” 

“ That is true, yes, that is true ” cried the 
knitter, and her nostrils expanded like those of 
the hyena when on the scent of blood. “ They 
will sit up there two hours longer, playing cards 
and singing stupid songs, and wheedling my mon- 
key of a husband with their flatteries, making 
him believe that they love him, love him bound- 
lessly, and they let themselves be locked into the 
Temple for his sake, and — oh ! if I had them 
here, I would strangle them with my own hands ! 
I would make a dagger of every one of my 
knitting-needles and thrust it into their hearts ! 
But quiet, quiet,” she continued in a grumbling 
tone, “ every thing must go on in a regular way. 
Will you take my place here for half an hour and 
guard the door? I have something important 
to do, something very important.” 

“ It will be a very great honor,” replied Madame 
Tison, “ a very great honor to be the substitute 
of one so well known and respected as you are, 
of whom every one knows that she is the best 
patriot and the most courageous knitter, whose 
eyelashes never quiver, and who can calmly go on 
with her stitches when the heads fall from the 
guillotine into the basket.” 

“If I did tremble, and my eyelashes did 
quiver, I would dash my own fists into my 
eyes ! ” said Madame Simon, with her hard 
coarse voice, rising and throwing her thin, 


THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE. 


195 


threadbare cloak over her shoulders. “ If I 
found a spark of sympathy in my heart, I would 
, inundate it with the blood of aristocrats till it 
should be extinguished, and till that should be, 
I would despise and hate myself, for I should be 
not only a bad patriot, but a bad daughter of 
my unfortunate father. The cursed aristocrats 
i have not only brought misery on our country and 
! people, but they murdered my dear good father. 

Yes, murdered I say. They said he was a high 
j traitor. And do you know why ? Because he 
^ told aloud the nice stories about the Austrian wo- 
man, who was then our queen, which had been 
whispered into his ear, and because he said that 
the king was a mere tool in the hands of his 
wife. They shot my good, brave father for what 
he had said, and which they called treason, 

1 although it was only the naked truth. Yet I will 
not work myself into a passion about it, and I 
j will only thank God that that time is past, and 
I will do my part that it shall not come back. 
And that is why we must be awake and on our 
guard, that no aristocrat and no royalist be 
left, but that they all be guillotined, all ! There, 

|| take your place on my chair, and take my knitting- 
!| work. Ah ! if it could speak to you as it does 
to me — if it could tell you what heads we two 
I have seen fall, young and old, handsome, distin- 
guished — it would be fine sport for you and make 
you laugh. But good-by just now ! Keep a strict 
lookout! I shall come back soon.” 

And she did come back soon, this worthy wo- 
. man, with triumphant bearing and flashing eyes, 
looking as the cat looks when it has a mouse in 
• its soft velvety paws, and is going to push its poi- 
sonous claws into the quivering flesh. She took 
her knitting-work up and bade Tison to go up 
again to her post. 

“ And when you can,” she said, “just touch the 
Austrian woman a little, and pay her off for being 
so many hours unwatched. In that way you will 
merit a reward from the people, and that is as 
well as deserving one of God. Provoke her — pro- 
voke the proud Austrian 1 ” 

“ It is very hard to do it,” said Tison, sighing 
■ — “ very hard, I assure you, for the Austrian is 


very cold and moderate of late. Since Louis Ca- 
pet died, the widow is very much changed, and 
now she is so uniform in her temper that it seems 
as if nothing would provoke or excite her.” 

“ What weak and tender creatures you all are !” 
said Simon’s wife, with a shrug. “ It is very plain 
that they fed you on milk when you were young. 
But my mother nursed me with hate. I was 
scarcely ten years when they shot my father, and 
not a day passed after that without my mother’s 
telling me that we must avenge his murder on the 
whole lineage of the king. I had to swear that I 
would do it. She gave me, for my daily food, ha- 
tred against the aristocrats ; it was the meat to 
my sauce, the sugar to my coffee, the butter to 
my bread I I lived and throve upon it. Look at 
me, and see what such fare has made of me ! 
Look at me I I am not yet twenty-four years 
old, and yet I have the appearance of an old wo- 
man, and I have the feeling and the experience of 
an old woman 1 Nothing moves me now, and the 
only thing that lives and burns in my heart is re- 
venge. Believe me, were I in your place I should 
know how to exasperate the Austrian ; I should 
succeed in drawing out her tears.” 

“ Well, and how would you begin ? Really, I 
should like to know how to bring this incarnation 
of pride to weeping.” 

“ Has not she children ? ” asked Madame Si- 
mon, with a horrible calmness. “ I would torture 
and provoke the children, and that would soon 
make the heart of the woman humble and plia- 
ble. Oh, she may count herself happy that I am 
not in your place, and that her children are not 
under my tender hands. But if it ever happens that 
I can lay my fingers upon the shoulders of the 
little wolves, I wdll give them something that will 
make them cry out, and make the old wolf howl 
with rage. I will show her as little favor then as 
she showed when my poor mother and I were 
begging for my dear father! Go up, go up 
and try at once. Plague the children, and you 
will see that that will make the Austrian plia- 
ble.” 

“ That is fine talk,” muttered Tison, as she 
went up the staircase, “ but she has no children, 


196 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


while I have a daughter, a dear, good daughter. 
She is not with me, but with my mother in Nor- 
mandy, because she can be taken better care of 
there than here. It is better for the good child 
that she has not gone through these evil days full 
of blood and grief with us. But I am always 
thinking of her, and when one of these two chil- 
dren here looks up to me so gravely with great, 
open eyes, it always makes me think of my So- 
longe. She has exactly such large, innocent eyes, 
and that touches my heart so that I cannot be 
harsh with the children. They, of course, are not 
at all to blame for having such bad, miserable 
parents, who have treated the people shamefully, 
and made them , poor and wretched. No, they 
have had nothing to do with it, and I cannot be 
severe with the children, for I am always thinking 
of my little Solonge ! I will provoke the Austrian 
woman as much as I can, but not the children — 
no, not the children ! ” 

Meanwhile, Mistress Simon had taken her place 
upon the chair near the open door in the porter’s 
lodge, and sat there with her cold, immovable 
face staring into empty space with her great coal- 
black, glistening eyes, while her hands were 
busily flying, making the polished knitting-nee- 
dles click against each other. 

She was still sitting there, when at last her hus- 
band came down the stairs to open the outer door 
of the Temple, conduct his friends past the inner 
court, and to bring back the two officials who 
were to keep guard during the night. 

They passed the knitter with a friendly saluta- 
tion and a bit of pleasantry — Toulan stopping a 
moment to ask the woman after her welfare, and 
to say a few smooth words to her about her cour- 
age and her great force of character. 

She listened quietly, let him go on with his 
talk, and when he had ended, slowly raised her 
great eyes from her knitting to him. 

“You are a traitor,” she said, with coldness, 
and without any agitation. “Yes, you are a trai- 
tor, and you, too, will have your turn at the guil- 
lotine ! ” 

Toulan paled a little, but collected himself im- 
mediately, took leave of the knitter with a smile, 


and hastened after the officials, who were waiting 
for him at the open door — the two who were to 
hold the watch during the night having already 
entered. 

Simon closed the door after them, exchanged a 
few words with them, and then went into his 
lodge to join his rigid better half. 

“ This has been a pleasant afternoon, and it is 
a great pity that it is gone, for I have had a very 
good time. We have played cards, sung, smoked, 
and Toulan has made jokes and told stories, and 
made much fun. I always wonder where he gets 
so many fine stories, and he tells them so well that 
I could hear him day and night. Now that he is 
gone, it seems tedious and dull enough here. 
Well, we must comfort ourselves that to-morrow 
will come by and by.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” asked his wife, 
sternly. “What sort of a day do you expect 
to-morrow to be ? ” 

“ A pleasant day, my dear Heloise, for Citizen 
Toulan will have the watch again. I begged him 
so long, that he at last promised to exchange with 
Citizen Pelletan, whose turn regularly comes to- 
morrow. Pelletan is not well, and it w'oiild be 
very hard for him to sit up there all day, and, be- 
sides, he would be dreadfully stupid. It is a 
great deal pleasanter to have Toulan here with 
his jokes and joUy stories, and so I begged 
him to come and take Pelletan’s place. He is 
going to accommodate me and come.” 

His wife did not answer a word, but broke out 
in a burst of shrill, mocking laughter, and with 
her angry black eyes she scrutinized her huS' 
band’s red, bloated face, as though she were read- 
ing him through and through. 

“ What are you laughing at ? ” he asked, angri- 
ly. “I would like to be beyond hearing when 
you give way in that style. What are you laugh- 
ing at ? ” 

“Because I wonder at you, you Jack,” she an- 
swered sharply. “Because you are determined 
to make an ass of yourself, and let dust be 
thrown in your eyes, and put yourself at the dis- 
posal of every one who soaps you over with 
smooth words.” 


THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE. 


197 


** Come,” said Simon, “ none of that coarseness ! 
and if you — ” 

“ Hist ! ” she answered, commandingly. “ I 
will show you at once that I have told you the 
truth, and that you are making an ass of your- 
self, or at least that you are on the point of do- 
ing so. Now, listen.” 

The knitter laid her work aside, and had a long 
conversation in a whisper with her husband. 
When it was ended, Simon stood up wearing a 
dark look, and walked slowly backward and for- 
ward in the little room. Then he stopped and 
shook his fist threateningly at the room above. 
“ She shall pay for this,” he muttered — “ by God 
in heaven ! she shall pay for this. She is a good- 
for-nothing seducer! Even in prison she does 
not leave off coquetting, and flirting, and turning 
the heads of the men! It is disgraceful, thor- 
oughly disgraceful, and she shall pay for it ! I 
will soon find means to have my revenge on her ! ” 

During the whole evening Mistress Tison did 
not leave her place behind the glass door for a 
moment, and at each stolen glance which the 
queen cast thither she always encountered the 
malicious, glaring eyes of the keeper, directed at 
her with an impudent coolness. 

At last came the hour of going to bed — the 
hour to which the queen looked impatiently for- 
ward. At night she was at least alone and un- 
guarded. After the death of the king, it had been 
found superfluous to trouble the officials with the 
wearisome night-watches, and they were satisfied, 
afte^ darkness had set in and the candles were 
lighted, with locking the three doors which led to 
the inner rooms. 

Did Marie Antoinette weep and moan at night, 
did she talk with her sister, did she walk discon- 
solately up and down her room? — the republic 
granted her the privilege. She could, during the 
night at least, have a few hours of freedom and 
of solitude. • 

But during the night Marie Antoinette did not 
weep or moan ; this night her thoughts were not 
directed to the sad past, but to the future ; for 
the first ray of hope which had fallen upon her 
path for a long time now encountered her. 


“ To escape, to be free ! ” she said, and the 
shadow of a smile flitted over her face. “ Can 
you believe it ? Do you consider it possible, sis- 
ter ? ” 

“ I should hke to believe it,” whispered Eliza- 
beth, “but there is something in my heart that 
reminds me of Varennes, and I only pray to God 
that He would give us strength to bear all the ills 
they inflict upon us. We must, above all things, 
keep our calmness and steadfastness, and be pre- 
pared for the worst as well as the best.” 

“Yes, you are right, we must do that,” said 
Marie Antoinette, collecting herself. “ When one 
has suffered as we have, it is almost more diffi- 
cult to hope for good fortune than to prepare for 
new terrors. I will compel myself to be calm. I 
will read Toulan’s plan once more, and will im- 
press it word for word upon my memory, so as 
to burn the dangerous sheet as soon as possible.” 

“ And while you are doing that I will unwind 
the ball that Toulan brought us, and which cer- 
tainly contains something heavy,” said the prin- 
cess. 

“ What a grand, noble heart ! what a lofty 
character has our friend Toulan ! ” whispered the 
queen. “ His courage is inexhaustible, his fidel- 
ity is invincible, and he is entirely unselfish. How 
often have I implored him to express one wish to 
me that I might gratify, or to allow me to give 
him a draft of some amount ! He is not to be 
shaken — he wants nothing, he will take nothing. 
Ah, Elizabeth, he is the first friend, of all who 
ever drew toward me, who made no claims and was 
contented with a kind word. When I implored 
him yesterday to tell me in what way I could do 
him a service, he said : ‘ If you want to make me 
happy, regard me always as your most devoted 
and faithful servant, and give me a name that 
you give to no one besides. Call me Fidele, and 
if you want to givm me another remembrancer than 
that which will always live in my heart, present 
me, as the highest token of your favor, with the 
little gold smelling-bottle which I saw you use in 
theLogograph box on that dreadful day.’ I gave 
him the trinket at once. He kneeled down 
in order to receive it, and when he kissed my 


198 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


hand bis hot tears fell upon it. Ah, Elizabeth, 
no one of those to whom in the days of our hap- 
piness I gave jewels, and to whom I gave hun- 
dreds of thousands, cherished for me so warm 
thanks as Toulan — no, as Eidele — for the poor, in- 
significant little remembrancer.” 

“ God is good and great,” said the princess, 
who, while the queen was speaking, was busily 
engaged in unwinding the thread ; “ in order that 
we might not lo: e faith in humanity and confi- 
dence in man, He sent us in His mercy this no- 
ble, true-hearted one, whose devotion, disinterest- 
edness, and fidelity were to be our compensation 
for all the sad and heart-rending experiences 
which we have endured. And, therefore, for the 
sake of this one noble man let us pardon the 
many from whom we have received only injury; 
for it says in the Bible that, for the sake of one 
righteous man, many sinners shall be forgiven, 
and Toulan is a righteous man.” 

“ Yes, he is a righteous man, blessings on him ! ” 
whispered the queen. Then she took the paper 
in her hand, and began^to read the contents soft- 
ly, repeating every sentence to herself, and im- 
printing every one of those hope-bringing words 
upon her memory ; and while she read, her poor, 
crushed heart gradually began to beat with firmer 
confidence, and to embrace the possibility of 
realizing the plan of Toulan and finding freedom 
in flight. 

During this time Princess Elizabeth had un- 
wound the thread of the ball, and brought to light 
a little packet enveloped in paper. 

“Take it, my dear Antoinette,” she said, “it is 
addressed to you.” 

Marie Antoinette took it and carefully unfolded 
the paper. Then she uttered a low, carefully-sup- 
pressed cry, and, sinking upon her knees, pressed 
it with its contents to her lips. 

“ What is it, sister ? ” cried the princess, hur- 
rying to her. “ What does Toulan demand ? ” 

The queen gave the paper to the princess. 
“ Read,” she said — “ read it, sister.” 

Elizabeth read ; “ Your majesty wished to pos- 
sess the relics which King Louis left to you. 
They consist of the wedding-ring of his majesty. 


his little seal, and the hair which the king him- 
self cut off. These three things lay on the chim- 
ney-piece in the closed sitting-room of the king. 
The supervisor of the Temple took them fiom 
Clery’s hand, to whom the king gave them, and 
put them under seal. I have succeeded in get- 
ting into the sitting-room; I have opened the 
sealed packet, taken out the sacred relics, put 
articles of similar character in their place, and 
sealed it up again. With this letter are the relics 
which belong to your majesty, and I swear by all 
that is sacred and dear to me — I swear by the 
head of my queen, that they are the true articles 
which the blessed martyr. King Louis XYL, con- 
veyed to his wife in his testament. I have stolen 
them for the exalted heir . of the crown, and I 
shall one day glory in the theft before the throne 
of God.” ^ 

“ See, Elizabeth,” said the queen, unfolding the 
little things, each one of which was carefully 
wrapped in paper — “ see, there is his wedding- 
ring. There on the inside are the four letters, 
‘M. A A. A., 19th April, I'ZVO.’ The day of our 
marriage ! — a day of joy for Austria as well as 
for Fnince! Then — ^but I will not think of it. 
Let me look further. Hear is the seal ! The 
cornelian engraved on two sides. Here on one 
side the French arms ; as you turn the stone, the 
portrait of our son the Dauphin of France, with 
his helmet on his head. Oh ! my son, my poor 
dear child, will your loved head ever bear any 
other ornament than a martyr’s crown ; will God 
grant you to wear the helmet of the warrior, and 
to battle for your rights and your throne ? How 
pleased my husband was when on his birthday 
I brought him this seal ! how tenderly his looks 
rested upon the portrait of his son, his successor ! 
and now — oh, now ! King Louis XYI. cruelly, 
shamefully murdered, and he who ought to be the 
King of France, Louis XYIL, is nothing but a 
poor, imprisoned child — a king without a crown, 
without hope, without a future ! ” 

“No, no, Antoinette,” whispered Elizabeth, 
who had kneeled before the queen and had ten- 


* Goncourt, “ Histoire de Marie Antoinette, p. 284. 


THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE. 


199 


»1 derly put her arms around her — “ no, Antoinette, 
do not say that your son has no hope and no 
future. Build upon Ood, hope that the under- 
a, taking which we are to-morrow, to execute will 
I lead to a fortunate result, that we shall flee from 
here, that we shall be free, that we shall be able 

[ to reach England. Oh, yes, let us hope that 
Toulan’s flne and bold plan will succeed, and then 
)! it may one day be that the son of my dear broth- 
; er, grown to be a young man, may put the helmet 
i on his head, gird himself with the sword, recon- 
quer the throne of his fathers, and take possession 
of it as King Louis XYII. Therefore let us hope, 

I sister.” 

“Yes, therefore let us hope,” whispered the 
queen, drying her tears. “ And here at last,” she 
continued, opening the remaining paper, “ here is 
I the third relic, the hair of the king ! — the only 
I thing which is left us of the martyr king, the un- 
fortunate husband of an unfortunate wife, the 
!l ’ 

I pitiable king of a most pitiable people ! Oh, my 

i king ! they have laid your poor head that bore 

( this white hair — they have laid it upon the scaf- 
fold, and the axe, the dreadful axe — ” 

I The queen uttered a loud shriek of horror, 

' sprang up, and raised both her hands in conjura- 
tion to Heaven, while a curse just trembled on 
I her lips. But Princess Elizabeth threw herself 
! into her arms, and pressed on the cold, quivering 
j lips of the queen a long, fervent kiss. 

“ For God’s sake, sister,” she whispered, 
“ speak softly. If Tison heard your cry, we are 
I lost. Hush! it seems to me I hear steps, hide 
the things. Let us hurry into bed. Oh, for 
God’s sake, quick ! ” 

She huddled the papers together, and put them 
hastily into her bosom, while Marie Antoinette, 
gathering up the relics, dashed into her bed. 

“ She is coming,” whispered Elizabeth, as she 
slipped into her bed. “We must pretend to be 
asleep.” 

And in fact Princess Elizabeth was right. The 
glass-door, which led from the sleeping-room of 
the children to the little corridor, and from there 
to the chamber of Mistress Tison, was slowly and 
cautiously opened, and she came with a lamp in 


her hand into the children’s room, She stood 
near the door, listening and spying around. In 
the beds of the children she could hear the long- 
drawn, calm breathing, which indicated peaceful 
slumbers ; and in the open, adjoining apartment, 
in which the two ladies slept, nothing was stir- 
ring. 

“But I did hear a sound plainly,” muttered 
Tison. “ I was awaked by a loud cry, and when 
I sat up in bed I heard people talking.” 

She stole to the beds of the children, and let 
the light fall upon their faces. “ They are sleep- 
ing soundly enough,” she muttered, “ they have 
not cried or spoken, but we will see how it is in 
the other room.” Slowly, with the lamp in her 
hand, she crept into the neighboring apartment. 
The two ladies lay motionless upon their beds, 
closing their eyes quickly when Mistress Tison 
crossed the threshold, and praying to God for 
courage and steadfastness. 

Tison went first to the bed of Princess Elizabeth 
and let the lamp fall full upon her face. The 
glare seemed to awaken her. “ What is it ? ” she 
cried, “ what has happened ? sister, what has 
happened ? where are you, Marie Antoinette? ” 

“ Here, here I am, Elizabeth,” cried the queen, 
rising suddenly up in bed, as if awakened. “Why 
do you call me, and who is here ? ” 

“ It is I,” muttered Tison, angrily. “ That is 
the way if one has a bad conscience 1 One is 
startled then with the slightest sound.” 

“We have no bad conscience,” said Elizabeth, 
gently, “ but you know that if we are awakened 
from sleep we cry out easilv \ud we might be 
thinking that some one was waking us to bring 
us happy tidings.” 

“ I hope so,” cried Tison, with a scornful laugh, 
“ Happy news for you ! that means unhappy and 
sad news for France and for the French people. 
No, thank God ! I did not waken you to bring you 
any good news.” 

“Well,” said the queen, gently, “tell us why 
you have wakened us and what you have to com- 
municate to us.” 

“I have nothing at all to communicate to you,” 
growled Tison, “ and you know best whether I 


200 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


woke you or you were already awake, talking 
and crying aloud. Hist ! it is not at all necessary 
that you answer, I know well enough that you are 
capable of lying. I tell you, my ears are open and 
my eyes too. I let nothing escape me ; you have 
talked and you have cried aloud, and if it occurs 
again, I shall report it to the supervisor and have 
a watch put here in the night again, that the 
rest of us may have a little quiet in the night- 
time, and not have to sleep like the hares, with our 
eyes open.” 

“ But,” said the princess gently, “ but dear wo- 
man — ” 

“ Hush ! ” interrupted Tison, commandingly, 
“ I am not your ‘ dear woman,’ I am the wife of 
Citizen Tison, and I want none of your confidence, 
for confidence from such persons as you are, 
might easily bring me to the scaffold.” 

She now passed through the whole room with 
her slow, stealthy tread, let the light fall upon 
every article of furniture and the floor, examined 
all the objects that lay upon the table, and then, 
after one last threatening look at the beds of the 
two ladies, went slowly out. She stopped again 
at the cribs of the children, and looked at them 
with a touch of gentleness. “ How quietly they 
sleep ! ” she whispered. “ They lie there exactly 
as they lay before. One w^ould think they were 
smiling in their sleep — I suppose they are playing 
wdth angels. I should like to know how angels 
come into this old, horrid Temple, and what 
Simon’s wife w'ould say if she knew they came in 
here at night without her permission. See, see,” 
she continued, “ the boy is laughing again, and 
spreading out his hands, as if he wanted to catch 
the angels. Ah ! I should like to know if my 
dear little Solange is sleeping as soundly as 
these children, and whether she smiles in her 
sleep and plays with angels ; I should like to know 
if she dreams of her parents, my dear little 
Solange, and whether she sometimes sees her poor 
mother, who loves her so and yearns toward her 
so tenderly that — ” ^ 


* This Mistress Tison, the cruel keeper of the queen, 
soon after this fell into lunacy, owing both to her long- 


She could not go on ; tears extinguished herut 
terance, and she hastened out, to silence her long, 
ings on the pillow of her bed. 

The ladies listened a long time in perfect si- 
lence; then, when every thing was still again, 
they raised themselves up softly, and began to 
talk to each other in the faintest of whispers, and 
to make their final preparations for the flight of 
the morrow. They then rose and drew from the 
various hiding-places the garments which they 
were to use, placed the various suits together, 
and then tried to put them on. A fearful, awful 
picture, such as a painter of hell, such as Breugel 
could not surpass in horror ! — a queen and a prin- 
cess, two tender, pale, harmless women, busied, 
deep in the night, as if dressing for a masquerade, 
in transforming themselves into those very offi- 
cials who had led the king to the scaffold, and 
who, with their pitiless iron hands, were detaining 
the royal family in prison ! 

There they stood, a queen, a princess, clad in 
the coarse, threadbare garments of republican 
officials, the tri-colored sashes of the “ one indi- 
visible republic ” around their bodies, their 
heads covered with the three-cornered hats, on 
which the tri-colored cockade glittered. They 
stood and viewed each other with sad looks and 
heavy sighs. Ah, what bright, joyous laughter 
would have sprung from the lips of the queen in 
the days of her happiness, if she had wanted to 
hide her beauty in such attire for some pleasant 
masquerade at Trianon ! What charming sport 
it would have been then and there ! How would 
her friends and courtiers have laughed ! How 
they would have admired the queen in her origi- 
nal costume, which might well have been tho.ught 
to belong to the realm of dreams and fantasies ! 
A tri-colored cockade — a figment of the brain — 

ings after her daughter and her compunctions of con- 
science for her treatment of the queen. The first token 
of her insanity was her falling upon her knees before 
Marie Antoinette, and begging pardon for all the pain 
she had occasioned, and amid floods of tears accusing 
herself as the one who would be answerable for the 
death of the queen. She then fell into such dreadful 
spasms, that four men were scarcely able to hold her. 
They carried her into the Hdtel Dieu, where she died 
after two days of the most dreadful sufferings and bitter 
reproaches of herself. — See Goncourt, p. 280. 


THE SEPARATION. 


201 


a tri*colored sash — a merry dream ! The lilies 
rule over France, and will rule forever ! 

No laughter resounded in the desolate room, 
scantily lighted with the dim taper — no laughter 
as the queen and the princess put on their 
strange, fearful attire. It was no masquerade, 
but a dreadful, horrible reality ; and as they looked 
at each other wearing the costume of revolution- 
ists, tears started from the eyes of the queen ; 
the princess folded her hands and prayed ; and 
she too could not keep back the drops that slow- 
ly coursed over her cheeks. 

The lilies of France are faded and torn from 
the ground ! From the palace of the Tuileries 
waved the tri-color of the republic, and in the 
palace of the former Knights Templars is a pale, 
sad woman, with gray hair and sunken eyes, a 
broken heart, and a bowed form. This pale, sad 
shadow of the past is Marie Antoinette, once the 
Queen of France, the renowned beauty, the first 
woman in a great kingdom, now the widow of 
an executed man, she herself probably with one 
foot — 

No, no, she will be saved ! God has sent her 
a deliverer, a friend, and this friend, this helper 
in her need, has made every thing ready for her 
flight. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE SEPARATION. 

Slowly and heavily the hours of the next day 
rolled on. Where was Toulan? Why did he 
not come ? The queen waited for him the whole 
of that long, dreadful day in feverish expectation. 
She listened to every sound, to every approaching 
step, to every voice that echoed in the corridor. 
At noon Toulan had purposed to come to take 
his post as guard. At six, when the time of 
lighting the lamps should arrive, the disguises 
were to be put on. At seven the carefully and 
skilfully-planned flight was to be made. 

The clock in the tower of the Temple had al- 


ready struck four. Toulan had not yet come, 
and the guards of the day had not yet been re- 
lieved. They hq,d had a little leisure at noon for 
dinner, and during the interim Simon and Tison 
were on guard, and had kept the queen on the 
rack with their mockery and their abusive words. 
In order to avoid the language and the looks of 
these men, she had fled into the children’s room, 
to whom the princess, in her trustful calmness 
and unshaken equanimity, was assigning them 
lessons. Marie Antoinette wanted to find protec- 
tion there from the dreadful anxiety that tortured 
her, as well as from the ribald jests and scurril- 
ity of her keepers. But Mistress Tison was there, 
standing near the glass window, gazing in with 
a malicious grin, and working in her wonted, 
quick way upon the long stocking, and knitting, 
knitting, so that you could hear the needles 
click together. 

The queen could not give way to a word or a 
look. That would have created suspicion, and 
would, perhaps, have caused an examination to 
be made. She had to bear all in silence, she had 
to appear indifierent and calm ; she had to give 
pleasant answers to the dauphin’s innocent ques- 
tions, and even compel a smile to her lips when 
the child, reading in her looks, by the instinct of 
love, her great excitement, tried to cheer her up 
with pleasant words. 

It struck five, and still Toulan did not come. 
A chill crept over her heart, and in the horror 
which filled her she first became conscious how 
much love of life still survived in her, and how 
intensely she had hoped to find a possibility of 
escape. 

Only one last hour of hope left ! If it should 
strike six, and he should not come, ail would be 
lost ! The doors of her prison would be closed 
forever — ^never opening again excepting to allow 
Marie Antoinette to pass to the guillotine. 

Mistress Tison had gone, and her cold, mocking 
face was no longer visible behind the glass door. 
The guards in the anteroom had also gone, and 
had closed the doors behind them. The queen 
was, therefore, safe from being watched at least 1 
She could fall upon her knees, she could raise her 


202 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


hands to God and wrestle with Him in speechless 
prayer for pity and deliverance. She could call 
her children to herself, and press them to her 
heart, and whisper to them that they must be 
composed if they should see something strange, 
and not wonder if they should have to put on 
clothing that they were not accustomed to. 

Mamma,” asked the dauphin, in a whisper, 
“ are we going to Yarennes again ? ” 

The queen shuddered in her inmost soul at this 
question, and hid her quivering face on the faith- 
ful breast of the princess. 

“ Oh, sister, I am suffocating with anxiety,” she 
said. “I feel that this hour is to decide the 
lives of us all, and it seems to me as if Death 
were already stretching out his cold hand toward 
me. We are lost, and my son, my unhappy son, 
will never wear any other than the martyr’s 
crown, and — ” 

The queen was silent, for just then the tower- 
clock began to strike, slowly, peacefully, the hour 
of six ! The critical moment ! The lamplight 
must come now ! If it were Toulan, they might 
be saved. Some unforeseen occurrence might 
•have prevented his coming before ; he might have 
borrowed the suit of the bribed lamplighter in 
order to come to them. There was hope still — 
one last, pale ray of hope ! 

Steps upon the corridor ! Voices that are au- 
dible ! 

The queen, breathless, with both hands laid 
upon her heart, which was one instant still, and 
then beat with redoubled rapidity, listened with 
strained attention to the opening of the door 
of the anteroom. Princess Elizabeth approached 
her, and laid her hand on the queen’s shoulder. 
The two children, terrified by some cause which 
they could not comprehend, climg to the hand and 
the body of their mother, and gazed anxiously at 
the door. 

The steps came nearer, the voices became loud- 
er. The door of the anteroom is opened — and 
there is the lamplighter. But it is not Toulan — 
no, not Toulan ! It is the man who comes every 
day, and the two children are with him as usual. 

A heavy sigh escaped from the lips of the 


queen, and, throwing her arras around the dai> 
phin with a convulsive motion, she murmured: 

“ My son, oh, my dear son ! May God take my 
life if He will but spare thine ! ” 

Where was Toulan ? Where had he been all 
this dreadful day ? Where was Fidele the brave, 
the indefatigable? 

On the morning of the day appointed for the 
flight, he left his house, taking a solemn leave of 
his Marguerite. At this parting hour he told her 
for the first time that he was going to enter upon 
the great and exalted undertaking of freeing the 
queen and her children, or of dying for them. 
His true, brave young wife had suppressed her 
tears and her sighs to give him her blessing, and 
to tell him that she would pray for him, and that 
if he should perish in the service of the queen, 
she would die too, in order to be united with him 
above. 

Toulan kissed the beaming eyes of his Margue- 
rite with deep feeling, thanked her for her true- 
hearted resignation, and told her that he had 
never loved her so much as in this hour when he 
was leaving her to meet his death, it might be, in 
the service of another lady. 

“At this hour of parting,” he said, “ I will give 
you the dearest and most sacred thing that I pos- 
sess, Take this little gold smelling-bottle. The 
queen gave it to me, and upon the bit of paper 
that lies within it Marie Antoinette wrote with 
her own hand, ‘ Remembrancer for Fidele.’ Fi- 
dele is the title of honor which my queen has 
given me for the little service which I have been 
able to do for her. I leave this little gift for you 
as that which, next to your love, is the most sa- 
cred and precious thing to me on earth. If I die, 
preserve it for our son, and give it to him on the 
day when he reaches his majority. Tell him of 
the time when I made this bequest to him, in the 
hope that he would make himself worthy of it, 
and live and die as a brave son of his country, a 
faithful subject and servant of his king, who, God 
willing, will be the son of Marie Antoinette. Tell 
him of his father; say to him that I dearly loved 
you and him, but that I had devoted my life to 
the service of the queen, and that I gave it freely 


THE SEPARATION. 


203 


and gladly, in conformity with my oath. I have 
not told you about these things before, dear Mar- 
guerite — ^not because I doubted your fidelity, but 
because I did not want you to have to bear the 
dreadful burden of expectation, and because I did 
not want to trouble your noble soul with these 
things. And now I only tell you this much : I 
am going away to try to save the queen. If I 
succeed, I shall come back for a moment this 
evening at ten o’clock. If I remain away, if 
you hear nothing from me during the whole night, 
then — ” 

“ Then what ? ” asked Marguerite, throwing her 
arms around him, and looking into his face anx- 
iously. “ Say, what then ? ” 

“Then I shall have died,” he said, softly, 
“ and our child will be an orphan ! Ho not 
weep, Marguerite ! Be strong and brave, show a 
cheerful face to our neighbors, our friends, and 
the spies ! But observe every thing ! Listen to 
every thing ! Keep the outer door open all the 
time, that I may be able to slip in at any mo- 
ment. Have the little secret door in my room 
open too, and the passage-way down into the cel- 
lar always free, that I may slip down there if 
need be. Be ready to receive me at any time, 
to hide me, and, it may possibly be, others who 
may come with me ! ” 

“ I shall expect you day and night,” she whis- 
! pered, “ so long as I live ! ” 

“And now. Marguerite,” he said, pressing her 
i tenderly to his heart, “ one last kiss ! Let me 
! kiss your eyes, your beautiful dear eyes, which 
I have always glanced with looks of love, and 
i which have always given me new inspiration. 

I Farewell, my dear wife, and God bless you for 

I I your love and fidelity ! ” 

jj “Do not go, my precious one! Come once 
I more to the cradle of our boy and give him a 
I parting kiss ! ” 

I “ No, Marguerite, that would unman me, and 
to-day I must be strong and master of myself. 
Farewell, I am going to the Temple 1 ” 

And, without looking at his wife again, he 
hurried out into the street, and turned his steps 
toward his destination. But just as he was turn- 


ing the very next corner Lepitre met him, pale, 
and displaying great excitement in his face. 

“Thank God!” he said, “thank God that I 
have found you. I wanted to hasten to you. We 
must flee directly — all is discovered. Immediate 
flight alone can save us ! ” 

“ What is discovered ? ” asked Toulan. “ Speak, 
Lepitre, what is discovered ? ” 

“ For God’s sake, let us not be standing here 
on the streets ! ” ejaculated Lepitre. “ They have 
certainly sent out the constables to arrest us. Let 
us go into this house here, it contains a passage 
through to the next street. Now, listen ! We 
are reported. Simon’s wife has carried our 
names to the Committee of Public Safety as sus- 
picious persons. Tison’s wife has given out that 
the queen and her sister-in-law have won us both 
over, and that through our means she is kept 
informed about every thing that happens. The 
carpet-manufacturer, Arnault, has just been pub- 
licly denouncing us both, saying that Simon’s 
wife has reported to him that we both have con- 
ducted conversation with the prisoners in low 
tones of voice, and have thereby been the means 
of conveying some kind of cheering information 
to the queen.* On that, our names were stricken 
from the list of official guards at the Temple, 
and we are excluded from the new ward commit- 
tee that is forming to-day.” 

“And is that all?” asked Toulan, calmly. 
“ Is that all the had news that you bring ? Then 
the projected flight is not discovered, is it ? 
Nothing positive is known against us? Nothing 
more is known than the silly and unfounded 
denunciations of two old women ? ” 

“ For God’s sake, do not use such idle words 
as these ! ” replied Lepitre. “ We are suspected, 
our names are stricken from the ward list. Is 
not that itself a charge against us ? And are 
not those who come under suspicion always con- 
demned ? Do not laugh, Toulan, and shake your 
head ! Believe me, we are lost if we do not flee ; 
if we do not leave Paris on the spot and conceal 
ourselves somewhere. I am firmly resolved on 

* Literally reproduced here. —See Goncourt, “ Histolre 
de Marie Antoinette,” p. 290. 


204 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


this, and in an hour I shall have started, disguised 
as a sans-culotte. Follow my example, my friend. 
Do not throw away your life foolhardily. Follow 
me ! ” 

No,” said Toulan, “ I shall stay. I have 
sworn to devote my life to the service of the 
queen, and I shall fulfil my oath so long as breath 
remains in my body. I must not go away from 
here so long as there is a possibility of assist- 
ing her. If flight is impracticable to-day, it may 
be effected at some more favorable time, and I 
must hold myself in readiness for it.” 

But they will take you, I tell you,” said I»epi- 
tre, with a downcast air. “ You will do no 
good to the queen, and only bring yourself to 
harm.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! they will not catch me so 
soon,” said Toulan, confidently. “Fortune al- 
ways favors the bold, and I will show you that I 
am brave. Go, my friend, save yourself, and may 
God give you long life and a contented heart! 
Farewell, and be careful that they do not discover 
you 1 ” 

“ You are angry with me, Toulan,” said Lepi- 
tre. “ You consider me cowardly. But I tell 
you, you are foolhardy, and your folly will plunge 
you into destruction.” 

“ I am not angry with you, Lepitre, and you 
shall not be with me. Every one must do as best 
he can, and as his heart and his head dictate to 
him. One is not the better for this, and another 
the worse. Farewell, my friend ! Take care for 
your own safety, for it is well that some faithful 
ones should still remain to serve the queen, and I 
know that you will serve her when she needs 
your help.” 

“ Then give me your hand in parting, my friend. 
And if at last you come* to the conclusion to flee, 
come to Normandy, and in the village of Lerne, 
near Dieppe, you will find ; me, and my father will 
receive you, and you shall be tr^ted as if you 
were my brother.” 

“ Thanks, my friend, thanks ! One last shake 
of the hand. There ! Now you are away, and I 
remain here.” 

Toulan went out into the street, walked along 


with a cheerful face, and repaired at once to the i 
hall where the Committee of Safety were sitting.;^ 

“ Citizens and brothers,” he said, in a loud, 
bold voice, “I have just been informed that 
I have been brought under suspicion and de- ; 
nounced. Friends have warned me to betake to ; 
flight. But I am no coward, I have no bad con- t 
science, and therefore do not fly, but come here 
and ask you is this true ? Is it possible that you ;| 
regard me as no patriot, and as a traitor ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered President Hobart, with a .i 
harsh, hard voice, “ you are under suspicion, and - 
we mistrust you. This shameful seducer, this she- 
wolf Marie Antoinette has cast her foxy eyes upon u 
you, and would doubtless succeed if you are often < 
with her. We have therefore once for all taken ; 
your name from the list of the official guards in . 

I 

the Temple, and you will no longer be exposed to i* 
the wiles of the Austrian woman. But besides 
this, as the second denunciation has been made 
against you to-day, and as it is asserted that you 
are in relations with aristocrats and suspected per- . 
sons, we have considered it expedient, in view of < 
the common safety, to issue a warrant for your 
apprehension. An officer has just gone with two 
soldiers to your house, to arrest you and bring 
you hither. You have simply anticipated the 
course of law by surrendering yourself. Officer, ; 
soldiers, here ! ” i 

The persons summoned appeared, and put Ton ^ 
Ian under arrest, preparatory to taking him to j 
prison. 

“ It is well,” said Toulan, wfith a noble calm- 
ness. “ I know that the time will come w'henyou 
will regret having so abused a true patriot ; and I 
hope, for the peace of your consciences, that 
there will be a time then to undo the evil which 
you are doing to me to-day, and that my head will 
then be on my shoulders, that my lips may be able 
to testify to you what my heart now dictates, that 
I forgive you 1 You are in error about me, yet I ' 
know that you are acting not out of enmity to me, 
but for the weal of the country, and out of love 
for the great, united republic. As the true and 
tenderly loving son of this noble, exalted mother, 

I forgive you for giving ear to my unrighteous 


THE SEPARATION'. 


205 


i accusers, and, even if you shed my innocent 
blood, my dying wish will be a blessing on the 
republic.” 

“ Those are noble and excellent words,” said 
Hobart, coldly. “ But if deeds speak in antago- 
nism to words, we cannot let the latter beguile us 
out of our sense, but we must give heed to justice.” 

“ That is the one only thing that I ask,” cried 
Toulan, brightly. “ Let justice be done, ray broth- 
ers, and I shall very soon be free, and shall come 
out from an investigation like a spotless lamb. I 
make no resistance. Come, my friends, take me to 
prison ! I only ask for permission to be escorted 
first to my house, to procure a few articles of 
clothing to use during my imprisonment. But I 
urge pressingly that my articles may be sealed up 
in my presence. For when the man of the house is 
not at home, it fares badly with the safety of his 
property, and I shall be able to feel at ease only 
when the seal of the republic is upon my possessions. 
I beg you therefore to allow my papers and valu- 
ables to be sealed in my presence. You will thus 
be sure that my wife and my friends have not re- 
moved any thing which might be used against me, 
and my innocence will shine out the more clearly. 
I beg you therefore to comply with my wish.” 
j The members of the committee consulted with 
I one another in low tones, and the chairman then 

I 

announced to Toulan that his wish would be com- 
plied with, and that an escort of soldiers might 
accompany him to his house, to allow him to pro- 
cure linen and clothing, and to seal his effects and 
papers in their presence. 

Toulan thanked them with cheerful looks, and 
went out into the street between the two guards. 
As they were on the way to his house, he talked 
easily with them, laughed and joked ; but in his ovv^n 
thoughts he said to himself, “You are lost ! hope- 
lessly lost, if you do not escape jiow. You are 
the prey of the guillotine, if the gates of the prison 
once close upon you ; therefore escape, escape or 
die.” While he was thus laughing and talking 
with the soldiers, and meanwhile thinking such 
solemn thoughts, his sharp black eyes were glan- 
cing in all directions, looking for a friend who 
might assisff him out of his trouble. 


And fortune sent him such a friend ! — Ricard, 
Toulan’s most trusted counsellor, the abettor of 
his plans. 

Toulan called him with an animated face, 
and in loud tones told him that he had been de- 
nounced, and therefore arrested ; and that he was 
only allowed to go to his house to procure some 
clothing. 

“ Come along, Ricard,” he said. “ They are 
going to put my effects under seal, and you have 
some papers and books on my writing-table. 
Come along, and take possession of your own 
things, so that they may not be sealed up as 
mine.” 

Ricard nodded assent, and a significant look 
told Toulan that his friend understood him, and 
that his meaning was, that Ricard should take 
possession of papers that might bring Toulan 
under suspicion. Continuing their walk, they 
spoke of indifferent matters, and at last reached 
Toulan’s house. Marguerite met them with calm 
bearing. She knew that every cry, every expres- 
sion of anxiety and trouble, would only imperil 
the condition of her husband, and her love gave 
her power to master herself. 

“ Ah ! are you there, husband ? ” she said, 
with a smile, how hard to her no one knew. 
“ You are bringing a great deal of company.” 

“ Yes, Marguerite,” said Toulan, with a smile, 
“ and I am going to. keep on with this pleasant 
company to prison.” 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, laughing, “ that is a good 
joke ! Toulan, the best of patriots, in prison ! 
Come, you ought not to joke about serious mat- 
ters.” 

“ It is no joke,” said one of the guards, sol- 
emnly. “ Citizen Toulan is arrested, and is here 
only to procure some articles of clothing, and 
have his effects put under seal.” 

“And to give back to his friend Ricard the 
books and papers that belong to him,” said Tou- 
lan. “ Come, let us go into my study, friends.” 

“ There are my books and papers,” cried Ri- 
card, as they went into the next room. He 
sprang forward to the writing-table, seized ail 
the papers lying upon it, and tried to thrust 


206 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


them into his coat-pocket. But the two soldiers 
checked him, and undertook to resist this move- 
ment. Ricard protested, a loud exchange of 
words took place — in which Marguerite had her 
share — insisting that all the papers on the table 
belonged to Ricard, and she should like to see 
the man who would have the impudence to pre- 
vent his taking them. 

Louder and louder grew the contention ; and 
when Ricard was endeavoring again to put the 
papers into his pocket, the two soldiers rushed 
M him to prevent it. Marguerite tried to come 
to his assistance, and in the effort, overthrew a 
little table which stood in the middle of the room, 
on which was a water-bottle and some glasses. 
The table came down, a rattle of broken glass 
followed, and amid the noise and outcries, the 
controversy and violence, no one paid attention 
to Toulan ; no one saw the little secret door 
quickly open, and Toulan glide from view. 

The soldiers did not notice this movement, 
but Marguerite and Ricard understood it well, and 
went on all the more eagerly with their cries and 
contentions, to give Toulan time to escape by the 
secret passage. 

And they were successful. When the two 
guards had, after long searching, discovered the 
secret door through which the escape had been 
effected, and had rushed down the hidden stair- 
way, not a trace of him was to be seen. 

Toulan was free ! Unhindered, he hastened to 
the little attic, which he had, some time before, 
hired in the house adjacent to the Temple, put on 
a suit of clothes which he had prepared there, 
and remained concealed the whole day. 

As Marie Antoinette lay sleepless upon her bed 
in the night that followed this vain attempt at 
flight, and was torturing herself with anxious 
doubts whether FidMe had' fallen a victim to his 
devotion, suddenly the tones of a huntsman’s horn 
broke the silence ; Marie Antoinette raised her- 
self up and listened. Princess Elizabeth had 
done the same ; and with suspended breath they 
both listened to the long-drawn and plaintive 
tones which softly floated in to them on the wings 
of the night. A smile of satisfaction flitted over 


their pale, sad faces, and a deep sigh escaped 
from their heavy hearts. 

“ Thank God ! he is saved,” whispered Marie 
Antoinette. “ Is not that the melody that was to 
tell us that our friend is in the neighbor- 
hood ? ” 

“ Yes, sister, that is the one ! So long as we 
hear this signal, we shall know that Toulan is liv- J 
ing still, and that he is near us.” 

And in the following weeks the prisoners of the 
Temple often had the sad consolation of hearing | 
the tones of Toulan’s horn ; but he never came to 
them again, he never appeared in the anteroom 
to keep guard over the imprisoned queen. 

Toulan did not flee ! He had the courage to 
remain in Paris ; he was constantly hoping that an 
occasion might arise to help the queen escape ; 
he was constantly putting himself in connection 
with friends for this object, and making plans for 
the flight of the royal captives. 

But exactly what Toulan hoped for stood as a 
threatening phantom before the eyes of the Con- 
vention-^the flight of the prisoners in the Temple. 
They feared the queen even behind those thick 
walls, behind the four iron doors that closed 
upon her prison! They feared still more this 
poor child of seven years, this little king without 
crown and without throne, the son of him who 
had been executed. The Committee of Safety 
knew that people were talking about the little 
king in the Temple, and that touching anecdotes 
about him were in circulation. A bold, reckless 
fellovv had appeared who called himself a prophet, 
and had loudly announced upon the streets and 
squares, that the lilies would bloom again, and that 
the sons of Brutus would fall beneath the hand of 
the little king whose throne • was in the Temple. 
They had, it is true, arrested the prophet and ^ 
dragged him to the guillotine, but his prophe- 
cies had found an echo here and there, and an 
interest in the little prince had been awakened 
in the people. The noble and enthusiastic men 
known as the Girondists were deeply solicitous ' 
about the young royal martyr, and the application 
of this expression to the little dauphin, made in 
the earnest and impassioned speeches before the 


THE SEPAKATION. 


207 


Convention, melted all hearers to tears and called 
out a deep sympathy. 

The Convention saw the danger, and at once 
resolved to be free from it.' On the 1st of July 
1793, that body issued a decree ■with the fol- 
lowing purport : “ The Committee of Public 
Safety ordains that the son of Capet be separ- 
ated from his mother, and be delivered to an 
instructor, whom the general director of the com- 
munes shall appoint.” 

The queen had no suspicion of this. Now that 
Toulan was no longer there, no news came to her 
of what transpired beyond the prison, and Fi- 
ddle’s horn-signals were the only sounds of the 
outer world that reached her ear. 

The evening of the 3d of July had come. The 
little prince had gone to bed, and had already 
sunk into a deep sleep. His bed had no curtains, 
but Marie. Antoinette had with careful hands fas- 
tened a shawl to the wall, and spread it out over 
the bed in such a manner that the glare of the 
f light did not fall upon the closed eyes of the child 
and disturb him in his peaceful slumbers. It was 
ten o’clock in the evening, and the ladies had 
that day waited unwontedly long before going to 
bed. The queen and Princess Elizabeth were 
busied in mending the clothing of the family, and 
Princess Theresa, sitting between the two, had been 
reading to them some chapters out of the Histori- 
cal Dictionary. At the wish of the queen, she 
had now taken a religious book. Passion Week, 
and was reading some hymns and prayers out 
of it. 

Suddenly, the quick steps of several men were 
heard in the corridor. The bolts flew back, the 
doors were opened, and six officials came in. 

“We are come,” cried one of them, with a 
brutal voice, “ to announce to you the order of 
the committee, that the son of Capet be separated 
from his mother and his family.” 

At these words the queen rose, pale with hor- 
ror. “ They are going to take my child from me ! ” 
she cried. “No, no, that is not jpossible. Gen- 
tlera^en, the authorities cannot think of separating 
me from my son. He is still so young and 
weak, he needs my care.” 


“ The committee has come to this determina- 
tion,” answered the official, “ the Convention has 
confirmed it, and we shall carry it into execution 
directly.” 

“ I caimot allow it,” cried Marie Antoinette in 
desperation. “ In the name of Heaven, I conjure 
you not to be so cruel ! ” 

Elizabeth and Theresa mingled their tears with 
those of the mother. All three had placed them- 
selves before the bed of the dauphin ; they clr^ig to 
it, they folded their hands, they sobbed ; the most 
touching cries, the most humble prayers trem 
bled on their lips, but the guards were not at all 
moved. 

, “ What is all this whining for ? ” they said. 
“ No one is going to kill your child ; give him to 
us of your own free will, or we shall have to 
him by force.” 

They strode up to the bed. Marie Antoinette 
placed herself with extended arms before it, and 
held the curtain firmly ; it however detached itself 
from the wall and fell upon the face of the dau- 
phin. He awoke, saw what was going on, and 
threw himself with loud shrieks into the arms of 
the queen. “ Mamma, dear Mamma, do not leave 
me ! ” She pressed him trembling to her bosom, 
quieted him, and defended him against the cruel 
hands that were reached out for him. 

5n vain, all in vain ! The men of the republic 
have no compassion on the grief of a mother ! 
“ By free will or by force he must go with us.” 

^ “Then promise me at least that he shall re- 
main in the tower of the Temple, that I may see 
him every day.” 

“ We have nothing to promise you, we have no 
account at all to give you. Parbleu, how can 
you take on and howl so, merely because your 
child is taken from you? Our children have to 
do more than that. They have every day to have 
their heads split open with the balls of the ene- 
mies that you have set upon them.” 

“ My son is still too young to be able to serve 
his country,” said the queen, gently, “ but I hope 
that if God permits it, he will some day be proud 
to devote his life to Him.” 

Meanwhile the two princesses, urged on by the 


208 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


officials, had clothed the gasping, sobbing boy. 
The queen now saw that no more hope remained. 
She sank upon a chair, and summoning all her 
strength, she called the dauphin to herself, laid 
her hands upon his shoulders, and pale, immov- 
able, with widely-opened eyes, whose burning lips 
were cooled by no tear, she gazed upon the quiv- 
ering face of the boy, who had fixed his great 
blue eyes, swimming with tears, upon the counte- 
nance of his mother. 

My child,” said the queen, solemnly, “ we 
must part. Remember your duties when I am 
no more with you to remind you of them. Never 
forget the good God who is proving you, and 
your mother who is praying for you. Be good 
and patient, and your Father in heaven -will bless 
you.” 

She bent over, and with her cold lips pressed a 
kiss upon the forehead of her son, then gently 
pushed him toward the turnkey. But the boy 
sprang back to her again, clung to her with his 
arms, and would not go. 

‘‘ My son, we must obey. God wills it so.” 

A loud, savage laugh was heard. Shuddering, 
the queen turned around. There at the open 
door stood Simon, and with him his wife, their 
hard features turned maliciously toward the pale 
queen. The woman stretched out her brown, 
bare arms to the child, grasped him, and pushed 
him before her to the door. 

“Is she to have him?” shrieked Marie An- 
toinette. “ Is my son to remain with this wo-* 
man ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Simon, with a grinning smile, as 
he put himself, with his arms akimbo, before the 
queen — “ yes, with this woman and with me, her 
husband, little Capet is to remain, and I tell you 
he shall receive a royal education. We shall 
teach him to forget the past, and only to remem- 
ber that he is a child of the one and indivisible 
republic. If he does not come to it, he must be 
brought to it, and my old cobbler’s straps will be 
good helpers in this matter.” 

He nodded at Marie Antoinette with a fiendish 
smile, and then followed the officials, who had al- 
ready gone out. The doors were closed again, 


the bolts drawn, and within the chamber reigned 
the stillness of death. The two women put 
their arms around one another, kneeled upon 
the floor and prayed. 

From this day on, Marie Antoinette had no 
hope more ; her heart was broken. Whole days 
long she sat fixed and immovable, without paying 
any regard to the tender words of her sister-in- 
law and the caresses of her daughter, without 
working, reading, or busying herself in any way. 
Formerly she had helped to put the rooms in 
order, and mend the clothes and linen ; now she 
let the two princesses do this alone and serve 
her. 

Only for a few hours each day did her counte- 
nance lighten at all, and the power of motion re- 
turn to this pale, marble figure. Those were 
the hours when she waited for her son, as he 
went with Simon every day to the upper story 
and the platform of the tower. She would then 
put her head to the door and listen to every step 
and all the words that he directed to the turnkey 
as he passed by. 

Soon she discovered a means of seeing him. 
There was a little crack on the floor of the plat- 
form on which the boy w'alked. The world re- 
volved for the queen only around this little crack, 
and the instant in which she could see her 
boy. 

At times, too, a compassionate guard who had 
to inspect the prison brought her tidings of her 
son, told her that he was well, that he had learned 
to play ball, and that by his friendly nature he 
won every one’s love. Then Marie Antoinette’s 
countenance would lighten, a smile would play 
over her features and linger on her pale lips as 
long as they were speaking of her boy. But oh ! 
soon there came other tidings about the unhappy 
child. His wailing tones, Simon’s threats, and 
his wife’s abusive words penetrated even the 
queen’s apartments, and filled her with the an- 
guish of despair. And yet it was not the worst 
to hear him cry, and to know that the son of the 
queen was treated ill ; it was still more dreadful 
to hear him sing with a loud voice, accompanied 
by the laugh and the bravoes of Simon and his 


THE SEPARATION. 


209 


wife, revolutionary and obscene songs — to know 
that not only his body but his soul was doomed 
to destruction. 

At first the queen, on hearing these dreadful 
songs, broke out into lamentations, cries, and loud 
threats against those who were destroying the 

14 


soul of her child. Then a gradual paralysis crept 
over' her heart, and when, on the 2d of August, 
she was taken from the Temple to the prison, the 
pale lips of the queen merely whispered, “ Thank 
God, I shall not have to hear him sing any 
more ! ” 


i 


BOOK 


V, 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN. 

The Bartholomew’s night of the murderous 
Catharine de Medicis, and her mad son, Charles 
IX., now found in France its horrible and bloody 
repetition; but the night of horror which we are 
now to contemplate was continued on into the 
day, and did not shrink even before the light. 

The sun shone down upon the streams of blood 
which flowed through the streets of Paris, and 
upon the pack of wild dogs that swarmed in un- 
counted numbers on the thoroughfares of the city, 
and lived on this blood, which gave back even to 
the tame their natural wildness. The sun shone 
down upon the scaffold, that rose like a threaten- 
ing monster upon the Place de la Revolution, and 
upon the dreadful axe which daily severed so many 
noble forms, and then rose from the block glitter- 
ing and menacing. 

The sun shone on that day, too, when Marie 
Antoinette ascended the scaffold, as her husband 
had done before, and so passed to her rest, from 
all the pains and humiliations of her last years. 

That day was the 16th of October, 1793. For 
four months Marie Antoinette looked forward to 
it as to a joyful deliverance. It was four months 
from the time when she was transferred from the 
Temple to the prison, and she knew that those 
who were confined in the latter place only left it 
to gain the freedom, not that man gives, but 
w^hich -God grants to the suffering — the freedom of 
death ! 


Marie Antoinette longed for the deliverance. 
How far behind her now lay the days of her hap- 
py, joyous youth ! how long ago the time when 
the tall, grave womq/i, her face full of pride and 
yet of resignation, had been charming Marie An- 
toinette, the very impersonation of beauty, youth, 
and love, carrying out in Trianon the idyl of ro- 
mantic country life — in the excess of her gayety 
going disguised to the public opera-house ball, be- 
lieving herself so safe amid the French people 
that she could dispense with the protection of 
etiquette — hailed with an enthusiastic admiration 
then, as she was now saluted with the savage 
shouts of the enraged people ! 

No, the former queen, Marie Antoinette, who, in 
the gilded saloons of Yersailles and in the Tuile- 
ries, had received the homage of all France, and 
with a smiling face and perfect grace of manner 
acknowledged all the tribute that was brought to 
her, had no longer any resemblance to the widow 
of Louis Capet, sitting before the revolutionary 
tribunal, and giving earnest answers to the ques- 
tions which were put to her. She arranged her 
toilet that day — but how different was the toilet 
of the Widow Capet from that which Queen Marie 
Antoinette had once displayed ! At that earlier 
time, she, the easy, light-hearted daughter of for- 
tune, had shut herself up for hours with her inti- 
mate companion, Madame Berthier, the royal 
milliner, planning a new ball-dress, or a new 
fichu ; or her Leonard would lavish all the re- 
sources of his fancy and his art inventing new 
styles of head-dress, now decorating the beauti- 
ful head of the queen with towering masses of 



0 



MARIE ANTOINETTE LEAVING THE TRIBUNAL. 





THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN. 


211 


auburn hair ; now braiding it so as to make it 
enfold little war-ships, the sails of which were 
finely woven from her own locks ; now laying out 
a garden filled with fruits and flowers, butterflies 
and birds of paradise. 

The “ Widow Capet ” needed no milliner and 
no hair-dresser in making her toilet. Her tall, 
slender figure was enveloped with the black 
woollen dress which the republic had given 
her at her request, that she might commemorate 
her deceased husband. Her neck and shoulders, 
which had once been the admiration of France, 
was now concealed by a white mush'n kerchief, 
which her keeper Bault had given her out of sym- 
pathy. Her hair was uncovered, and fell in long, 
natural locks on both sides of her pale, transpar- 
ent face. Her hair needed no powder now ; the 
long, sleepless nights and the sorrowful days have 
whitened it more than any powder could do ; and 
the widow of Louis Capet, though but thirty-eight 
years old, had the gray locks of a woman of sev- 
enty. 

In this toilet Marie Antoinette appeared before 
the revolutionary tribunal, from the 6th to the 
13th of October. Nothing royal was left about 
her but her look and her proud bearing. 

The people, pressing in dense masses into the ’ 
spectators’ seats, did not weary of seeing the queen 
in her humiliation and in her mourning-robe, and 
constantly demanded that Marie Antoinette should 
rise from the woven rush chair on which she was 
sitting, that she should allow herself to be stared 
at by this throng, brought there not out of com- 
passion, but curiosity. 

Once, as she rose in reply to the demand of the 
public, she was heard to whisper, as to herself : 
“Ah, will this people not soon be satisfied with 
my sufferings ? ” ^ At another time, her pale, dry 
lips murmured, “ I am thirsty ! ” but no one 
around her dared to have compassion on this cry 
of distress ; every one looked perplexed at the 
others, and no one dared give her a glass of wa- 
ter. At last one of the gem cVarmes ventured to 
do it, and Marie Antoinette thanked him with a 


look that brought tears into his eyes, and that 
perhaps caused him to fall on the morrow under 
the guillotine as a traitor. 

The gem d'armea v/ho guarded the queen, they 
alone had the courage to show her compassion 
One night, when she was conducted from the 
session-room to her prison, Marie Antoinette felt 
herself so exhausted, so overcome, that she mur- 
mured to herself, as she staggered on, “I cannot 
see, I cannot walk any farther.” ^ The guard 
who was walking by her side gave her his arm, 
and, supported by him, Marie Antoinette reeled 
up the stone steps that led to her prison. 

At last, in the night intervening between the 
14th and 15th of October, at four o’clock in the 
morning, her sentence was pronounced — “ Death ! 
execution by the guillotine ! ” 

Marie Antoinette received it with unshakable 
calmness, while the tumult of the excited mob was 
hushed as by magic, and while many faces even 
of the exasperated fishwives grew pale ! 

Marie Antoinette remained calm ; gravely and 
coldly she rose from her seat, and with her own 
hands opened the balustrade in order to leave the 
hall to return to her prison ! 

Finally, on the morning of the 16th of October, 
her sufferings were allowed to end, and she was 
permitted to take refuge in the grave. It almost 
made her joyful ; she had suffered so much, that 
to die was for her really blessedness. 

She employed the still hours of the night before 
her death in writing to her sister-in-law, Madame 
Elizabeth, and her letter was at the same time her 
testament. But the widow of Louis Capet had 
no riches, no treasures to convey. She had 
nothine: more that she could call her own but her 
love, her tears, and her farewell greetings. 
These she left to all who had loved her. She sent 
a special word to her brothers and sisters, and 
bade them farewell. 

“I had friends,” she says, “and the thought 
that I am to be forever separated from them, and 
their sorrow for me, is the most painful thiiig in 
this hour ; they shall at least know that I thought 
of them to the last moment.” 


* Marie Antoinette’s own words. — See Gonconrt, “His- 
toire de Marie Antoinette,” p. 404. 


* Gonconrt, p. 415. 


212 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


After Marie Antoinette had ended this letter, 
whose writing was here and there blotted with her 
tears, she turned her thoughts to the last remem- 
brances she could leave to her children — a re- 
membrance which should not be profaned by the 
hand of the executioner. This was her long hair, 
whose silver locks, the only ornament that re- 
mained to her, was at the same time the sad rec- 
ord of her sorrows. 

Marie Antoinette, with her own hands, de- 
spoiled herself of this ornament, and cut off her 
long back -hair, that it might be a last gift to her 
children, her relations, and friends. Then, after 
a period of meditation, she prepared herself for 
the last great ceremony of her career — her death. 
She felt herself exhausted, w^orn out, and recog- 
nized her need of some physical support during 
the hard w^ay which lay before her. She asked 
for nourishment, and ate with some relish the 
wing of a fowl that was brought to her. After 
that she made her toilet — the toilet of death ! 

At the request of the queen, the wife of the 
turnkey gave her one of her own chemises, and 
Marie Antoinette put it on. Then she arrayed 
herself in the same garments which she had worn 
at her trial, with this single change — that over 
the black woollen dress, which she had often 
mended with her own hand, she now wore a eloak 
of white piquL Around her neck she tied a sim- 
ple kerchief of white muslin, and as She would not 
be allowed to ascend the scaffold with uncov- 
ered head, she put on a plain linen cap, such as 
was in general use among the people. Black 
stockings covered her feet, and over these were 
shoes of black woollen stuff. 

Her toilet was at last ended ; she was done 
with all earthly things ! Ready to meet her 
death, she lay down on her bed and slept. 

She was still sleeping when it was announced 
to her that a priest was there, ready to meet her, 
if she wanted to confess. But Marie Antoinette 
*iad already unveiled her heart before God : ,^|.ie 
wanted none of those priests of reason whom the 
republic had appointed after it had banished or 
guillotined the priests of the Church. 

“ As I am not mistress of my own will,” she 


had written to her sister Elizabeth, “ I shall *iave 
to submit if a priest is brought to me ; but I sol- 
emnly declare that I will not speak a word to him, 
and that I shall treat him as a person with whom 
I wish to have no relations.” 

And Marie Antoinette kept her word ; she did 
not refuse to allow Geroid to enter ; but when he 
asked her if she wished to receive the consolations 
of religion from him, she declined. 

Then, in order to warm her feet, which were 
cold, she walked up and down her little room. 
As it struck seven the door opened. It was Sam- 
son, the public executioner, who entered ! 

A slight thrill passed through the form of the 
queen. “ You have come very early, sir ; could 
you not delay a little ? ” When Samson denied 
her request, Marie Antoinette put on her calm, 
cold manner. She drank, without resistance, a 
cup of chocolate which was brought to her ; she 
remained possessed, and wore her wonted air of 
dignity as they bound her hands behind her with 
thick cords. 

At eleven o’clock she left her room, passed 
through the corridor, and ascended the car, 
which was waiting for her before the prison 
door. No one accompanied her, no one bade 
her a last farewell, not a 'look of pity or com- 
passion was bestowed upon her by her keepers. 

Alone, between the rows of gens d'’armes that 
were placed along the sides of the corridor, the 
queen advanced, Samson walking behind her, car- 
rying the end of the rope with which the queen’s 
hands were bound, and behind him his two as- 
sistants and the priest. This is the retinue of 
the queen, the daughter of an emperor, on the 
way to her execution ! 

It may be, that at this hour thousands are on 
their knees, offering their fervent prayers to God 
in behalf of Marie Antoinette, whom, in their 
hearts, they continued to call “ the queen ; ” it 
may be that thousands are pouring out tears of 
compassion for her who now mounts the wretched 
car, and sits down on the board which is bound 
by ropes to the sides of the vehicle. But those 
who are praying and weeping have withdrawn to 
the solitude of their own apartments, and only 


THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN. 


213 


God can see their tears and hear their cries. The 
eyes which witnessed the queen in this last drive 
were not allowed to shed a tear ; the words which 
follov/ed her on her last way could express no 
compassion. 

All Paris knew the hour of the execution, and 
tbe people were ready to witness it. On the 
streets, at the windows, on the roofs, immense 
masses had congregated, and the whole Place de 
la Revolution (now the Place de la Concorde) was 
filled with a dark, surging crowd. 

And now the drums of the guards stationed be- 
fore the Conciergeric began to beat. The great 
white horse, (which drew the car in which the 
queen sat, side by side with the priest, and facing 
backward,) was driven forward by a man who was 
upon his back. Behind Marie Antoinette were 
Samson and his assistants. 

The queen was pale, all the blood had left her 
cheeks and lips, but her eyes were red ! Poor 
queen, she bore even then the marks of much 
weeping ! But she could shed no tears then ! 
Not a single one obscured her eye as her look 
ranged, gravely and calmly, over the mass, up 
the houses to the very roofs, then slowly down, 
and then away over the boundless sea of human 
faces. 

Her face was as cold and grave as her eyes, her 
lips were firmly compressed ; not a quiver be- 
trayed whether she was suflering, and whether 
she shrank from the thousand and ten thousand 
' scornful and curious looks which were fixed upon 
her. And yet Marie Antoinette saw it all ! She 
saw. a w^oman raise a child, she saw the child 
throw her a kiss with its little hand ! At that the 
queen gave way for an instant, her lips quivered, 
her eyes were darkened with a tear ! This soli- 
tary sign of human sympathy reanimated the 
heart of the queen, and gave her a little fresh 
life. 

But the people took good care that Marie An- 
toinette should not carry this one drop of comfort 
to the end of her journey. The populace thronged 
around the car, howled, groaned, sang ribald 
songs, clapped their hands, and pointed their fin- 
gers in derision at Madame Veto. 


The queen, however, remained calm, her gaze 
wandering coldly over the vast multitude ; only 
once did her eye flash on the route. It was as 
she passed the Palais Royal, where Philippe 
Egalite, once the Duke d’Orleans, lived, and read 
the inscription which he had caused to be placed 
over the main entrance of the palace. 

At noon the car reached its destination. It 
came to a halt at the foot of the scaffold ; Marie 
Antoinette dismounted, and then walke d slowly 
and with erect head up the steps. 

Not once during her dreadful ride had her lips 
opened, not a complaint had escaped her, not a 
farewell had she spoken. The only adieu which 
she had to give on earth was a look- -one long, 
sad look — directed toward the Tuileiies; and as 
she gazed at the great pile her cheeks grew paler, 
and a deep sigh escaped from her lips. 

Then she placed her head under the guillo- 
tine, — a momentary, breathless silence folloAved. 

Samson lifted up the pale head that had -once 
belonged to the Queen of France, and the people 
greeted the sight with the cry, “Long live the 
republic ! ” 

That same evening one of the officials of the 
republic made up an account, now preserved in 
the Imperial Library of Paris, and which must 
move even the historian himself to tears. It runs 
as follows: “Cost of interments, conducted by 
Joly, sexton of Madelaine de la Yille I’Eveque, 
of persons condemned by the Tribunal of the 
Committee of Safety, to wit. No. 1 . . . .” Then 
follow twenty-four names and numbers, and then 
“No. 25. Widow Capet: 

For the coffin, 6 francs. 

For digging the grave, 25 francs.” 

Beneath are the words, “Seen and approved 
by me. President of the Revolutionary Tribunal, 
that Joly, sexton of the Madelaine, receive the 
sum of two hundred and sixty-four francs from 
the National Treasury, Paris, 11th Brumaire. 
Year 11. of the French Republic. Herman, Presi- 
dent.” 

The interment of the Queen of France did not 
cost the republic more than thirty-one francs, or 
six American dollars. 


214 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

KING LOUIS THE SEVENTEENTH. 

The “one and indivisible republic” had gained 
the victory over the lilies of France. In their 
dark and unknown graves, in the Madelaine 
churchyard, King Louis XYI. and Marie Antoi- 
nette slept their last sleep. The monarchy had 
perished on the guillotine, and the republicans, 
the preachers of liberty, equality, and fraternity, 
repeated triumphantly : “ Royalty is forever ex- 
tinguished, and the glorious republic is the ris- 
ing sun which is to bring eternal deliverance to 
France.” 

But, in spite of this jubilant cry, the foreheads 
of the republican leaders darkened, and a peculiar 
solicitude took possession of their hearts w^hen 
their eyes fell upon the Temple — that great, dismal 
building, that threw its dark shadows over the 
sunny path of the republic. Was it regret that 
darkened the brows of the regicides as they looked 
upon this building, which had been the sad prison 
of the king and queen ? Those hearts of bronze 
knew no regret ; and when the heroes of the 
revolution crossed the Place de la Guillotine, on 
which the royal victims had perished, their eyes 
flashed more proudly, and did not fall even when 
they passed by the Madelaine churchyard. 

No, it was not the recollection of the deed that 
saddened the brows of the potentates of the re- 
public when they looked at the dismal Temple, 
but the recollection of him who was not yet dead, 
but who was still living as a captive in the gloomy 
state-prison of the republic. 

This prisoner was indeed only a child of eight 
years, but the legitimists — and there were many 
of them still in the country — called him the King 
of France ; and priests in loyal Vendee, when they 
had finished the daily mass for the murdered 
king, prayed to God, with uplifted hands, for 
grace and deliverance for the young captive at 
the Temple, the young king, Louis XVII. 

“ Le roi est mort — Vive le roi ! ” 

There were, it must be confessed, among the 
royalists and legitimists many who thought of the 


young prisoner with bitterness and anger, and who 
accused and blamed him as the calumniator of 
his mother ! As if the child knew what he was 
doing when, at the command of bis tormentor 
Simon, he wrote with trembling hand his name 
upon the paper which was laid before him in the 
open court. As if the poor innocent boy knew 
what meaning the dreadful questions had, which 
the merciless judges put to him, and which he an- 
swered with no, or with yes, according as his scru- 
tinizing looks were able to make out the fitting 
answer on the hard face of Simon, who stood near 
him. For the unhappy lad had already learned to 
read the face of the turnkey, and knew very well 
that every wrinkle of the forehead which was 
caused by him must be atoned for with dreadful 
sufferings, abuses, and blows. 

The poor boy was afraid of the heavy fist that 
came down hke an iron club upon his back and 
even on his face, when he said any thing or did 
any thing that displeased Simon or his wife ; and 
therefore he sought to escape this cruel treatment, 
confirming with his yes and no what Simon told 
the judges, and what the child in his innocence did 
not understand ! And therefore he subscribed the 
paper without reluctance in which he unconscious- 
ly gave evidence that disgraced his mother. 

With this testimony they ventured to accuse 
Marie Antoinette of infamy, but the queen gave 
it no other answer than scornful silence and 
a proud and dignified look, before w’hich the 
judges cast down their eyes in shame. Then 
after a pause they repeated their question, and 
demanded an answer. 

Marie Antoinette turned her proud and yet gen- 
tle glance to the women who had taken posses- 
sion in dense masses of the spectators’ gallery, and 
who breathlessly awaited the answer of the 
queen. 

“ I appeal to all mothers present,” she said, 
with her sad, sonorous voice — “ I ask whether 
they hold such a crime to be possible.” 

No one gave audible reply, but a murmur 
passed through the ranks of the spectators, and 
the sharp ear of the judges understood very well 
the meaning of this sound, this language of sjun- 


KING LOUIS XYII. 


215 


pathy, and it seemed to them wiser to let the ac- 
cusation fall rather than rouse up the compassion 
of the nibthers still more in behalf of the queen. 
Her condemnation was an event fixed upon, the 
“ guilty ” had been spoken in the hearts of the 
, judges long before it came to their lips, and 
brought the queen to the guillotine. 

Marie Antoinette referred to this dreadful 
charge in the letter which she wrote to her sister- 
in-law Elizabeth in the night before her execution, 
a letter which was at the same time her testament 
and her farewell to life. 

“ May my son,” she wrote, “ never forget the 
last words of his father ! I repeat them to him 
here expressly : ‘ May he never seek to avenge our 
death I’ And now I have to speak of a matter which 
surely grieves my heart. I know what trouble 
this child must have occasioned you. Forgive 
him, my dear sister ; think how young he is, and 
how easy it is to induce a child to say what peo- 
ple- want to have him say, and what he does not 
understand. The day will come, I hope, when he 
shall better comprehend the high value of your 
goodness and tenderness to both of my chil- 
dren.” ^ 

At the same hour when Marie Antoinette was 
writing this, there was a dispute between Simon 

I 

and his wife, who had been ordered by the Con- 
•' vention to watch that night, in order that the en- 
raged legitimists might not make an effort to ab- 
I duct the son of the queen. They were contending 
I whether the execution would really occur the 
I next day. Simon, in a jubilant tone, declared 
his conviction that it would, while his wife doubt- 
I ed. “She is still handsome,” she said, gloomily, 
I “she knows how to talk well, and she will be 

I 

I able to move her judges, for her judges are men.” 
I “ But Justice is a woman, and she is unshak- 
j able,” cried Simon emphatically, and as his wife 

continued to contradict, Simon proposed a bet. 
The wager was, that if the Queen of France should 
be guillotined the next noon, the one who lost 
should furnish brandy and cakes the next evening 
for a jollification. 

* Beauchesne, “ liOuis XYII., sa Yie, son Agonie,” etc., 
vol. ii., p. 156., facsimile of Marie Antoinette’s. letter. 

I 


The next morning Simon repaired with the little 
prisoner to the platform of the tower, from which 
there was a free lookout over the streets, and 
where they could plainly see what was going on 
below. 

His wife meanwhile had left the Temple at 
early dawn with her dreadful knitting-work. “ I 
must be on the spot early if I want a good place 
to-day,” she said, “ and it would be a real mis- 
fortune for me, if I should not see the miserable 
head of the she-wolf drop, and not make a double 
stitch in my stocking.” 

“But you forget, Jeanne Marie,” said Simon, 
with a grin, “ you forget that you lose your bet 
if you make the mark in your stocking.” 

“I would rather lose all the bets that were 
ever made than not make the mark in my stock- 
ing,” cried the knitter, grimly. “ I would rather 
lose my wedding-dress and my marriage-ring than 
win this bet. Go up to the platform with the 
young wolf, and wait for me there. As soon as I 
have made the \nark in my stocking, I will run 
home and show it to you.” 

“ It is too bad that I cannot go with you,” said 
Simon, sighing. “ I wish I had never undertaken 
the business of bringing up the little Capet. It 
is hateful work, for I can never leave the Temple, 
and I am just as much a prisoner as he is.” 

“ The republic has done you a great honor,” 
said the knitter, solemnly. “ She has confidence 
that you will make out of the son of the she-wolf, 
out of the worthless scion of tyrants, a son of the 
republic, a useful citizen.” 

“ Good talk,” growled Simon, “ and you have 
only the honor of the affair, and the satisfaction 
besides of plaguing the son of our tyrants a bit.” 

“ Of taking revenge,” struck in the knitter — 
“ revenge for the misery which my family has 
suffered from the tyrants.” 

“ But I,” continued Simon, “ I have certainly 
the honor of the thing, but I have also the bur- 
den. In the first place, it is very hard to make a 
strong and useful citizen of the republic out of 
this whining, tender, and sensitive urchin. And 
then again it is very unpleasant and disagreeable 
to have to live like a prisoner always.” 


216 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


‘‘Listen, Simon, hear what I promise you,” 
said Jeanne Marie, laying her hard brown hand 
upon Simon’s shoulder. “ If the Austrian atones 
to-day for her crimes, and the executioner shows 
her head to the avenged people, I will give up my 
place at the guillotine as a knitter, will remain with 
you here in the Temple, will take my share in the 
bringing up of the little Capet, and you yourself 
shall make the proposition to the supervisor, that 
your wife like yourself shall not be allowed to 
leave the Temple.” 

“ That is something I like to hear,” cried Si- 
mon, delighted ; “ there will then be at least two 
of us to bear the tedium of imprisonment. So 
go, Jenne Marie, take your place for the last time 
at the guillotine, for I tell you, you will lose your 
bet ; you will have to furnish brandy and cakes, 
and stay with me here at the Temple to bring up 
the little Capet. So go, I will go up to the plat- 
form with the boy, and wait there for your re- 
turn.” 

He called the little Louis Charles, who was sit- 
ting on the tottering rush-chair in his room, and 
anxiously waiting to see whether “ his master ” 
was going to take him that day out of the dismal, 
dark prison. 

“ Come, little Capet,” cried Simon, pushing the 
door open with his foot — “ come, we will go up 
on the platform. You can take your ball along 
and play, and I advise you to be right merry to- 
day, for it is a holiday for the republic, and I am 
going to teach you to be a good republican. So 
if you want to keep your back free from my 
straps, be jolly to-day, and play with your ball.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried the child, springing forward mer- 
rily v/ith his ball — “ oh ! only be good, master, 
I will certainly be merry, for I like to play with 
my ball, and I am ever so fond of holidays. 
What kind of one is it to-day ? ” 

“ No matter about your knowing that, you little 
toad ! ” growled Simon, who in spite of himself 
had compassion on the pale face of the child that 
looked up to him so innocently and inquiringly. 
“ Up the staircase quick, and play and laugh.” 

Louis obeyed with a smile, sprang up the high 
steps of the winding stairway, jumped about on 


the platform, throwing his ball up in the air, and 
shouting aloud when he caught it again with his 
little thin hands. 

Meanwhile Simon stood leaning on the iron 
railing that surrounded the platform, looking with 
his searching eyes down into the street which far 
below ran between the dark houses like a narrow 
ribbon. 

The wind now brought the sustained notes of 
the drums to him ; then he saw the street below 
suddenly filled with a dark mass, as if the ribbon 
were turning into crape that was filling all Paris. 

“ The people are in motion by thousands,” cried 
Simon, delightedly, “ and all rushing to the Place 
de la Revolution. I shall win my bet.” 

And again he listened to the sound that came 
up to him, now resembling the beat of drums, 
and now a loud cry of exultation. 

“Now I think Samson must be striking the 
head off the wolf !” growled Simon to himself, 
“ and the people are shouting with pleasure, and 
Jeanne Marie is making a mark in her stocking, 
and I, poor fellow, cannot be there to see the 
fine show ! And this miserable brat is to blame 
for it,” he cried aloud, turning suddenly round to 
the child who was playing behind him with his 
ball, and giving him a savage blow with his fist. 

“ You are the cause, stupid, that I cannot be 
there to-day ! ” 

“ Master,” said the child, beseechingly, lifting 
his great blue eyes, in which the tears were stand- 
ing, up to his tormentor — “master, I beg your 
forgiveness if I have troubled you.” 

“ Yes, you have troubled me,” growled Simon, 
“ and you shall get your thanks for it in a way 
you will not like. Quick, away with your tears, 
go on with your play if you do not want your 
back to make acquaintance with my straps. 
Merry, I say, little Capet, merry ! ” 

The boy hastily dried his tears, laughed aloud 
as a proof of his merriment, and began to jump 
about again and to play with his ball. 

Simon listened again, and looked down longing- 
ly into the streets, which were now black with the 
surging masses of men. Steps were now heard 
upon the stairway, and Jeanne Marie presently 


KING LOmS XVIL 


21 '/ 


appeared on the platform. With a grave, solemn 
air she walked up to her husband, and gave him 
her stocking, on which three great drops of blood 
- were visible. 

“ That is her blood,” she said, calmly. “ Thank 
God, I have lost the bet ! ” 

“ What sort of a bet was it ? ” asked the boy, 
with a smile, and giving his ball a merry toss. 

“ The bet is nothing to you,” answered Jeanne 
Marie, “ but if you are good you will get some- 
thing by and by, and have a share in the pay- 
ment of the bet ! ” 

That evening there was a little feast prepared 
in the gloomy rooms of the Simons. The wife 
paid the wager, for the Queen of France had 
really been executed, and she had lost. She pro- 
vided two bottles of brandy and a plum cake, and 
the son of the murdered queen had a share in 
the entertainment. He ate a piece of the plum 
cake, and, under the fear of being beaten if he 
refused, he drank some of the brandy that was so 
offensive to him. 

From this time the unhappy boy remained un- 
der the hands of the cobbler and his cruel wife. 
In vain his aunt and his sister implored their 
keepers to be allowed to see and to talk with the 
prince. They were put off with abusive words, 
and only now and then could they see him a mo- 
mi.ut through a crack in the door, as he passed by 
with Simon, on his way to the winding staircase. 
At times there came up through the floor of their 
room — for Simon, who was no longer porter, had 
the rooms directly beneath these occupied by the 
princesses — the crying and moaning of the little 
prince, filling their hearts with pain and bitter- 
ness, for they knew that the horrible keeper of 
the dauphin was giving his pitiable ward a lesson, 
L e,, he was beating and maltreating him. 

Why ? For what reason ? One day, perhaps, 
because he refused to drink brandy, the next be- 
cause he looked sad, or because he asked to be 
taken to his mother or the princesses, or because 
he refused to sing tlie ribald songs which Simon 
tried to teach him about Madame Veto or the 
Austrian she-wolf. 

In this one thing the boy remained immovable ; 


neither threats, abuse, nor blows would force him 
to sing scurrilous songs about his mother. Out 
of fear he did every thing else that his tormentor 
bade him. He sung the Marseillaise^ and the Qa 
ira, he danced the Carmagnole^ uttered his loud 
hurrahs as Simon drank a glass of brandy to the 
weal of the one and indivisible republic ; but 
when he was ordered to sing mocking songs about 
Madame Veto, he kept a stubborn silence, and 
nothing was able to overcome what Simon called 
the “ obstinacy of the little viper.” 

Nothing, neither blows nor kicks, neither threats 
nor promises ! The child no longer ventured to 
ask after its mother, or to beg to be taken to his 
aunt and sister, but once in a while when he heard 
a noise in the room above, he would fix his eyes 
upon the ceiling for a long time, and with an ex- 
pression of longing, and when he dropped them 
again the clear tears ran over his cheeks like 
tr an sp ar ent p earls. 

He did not speak about his mother, but he 
thought of her, and once in the night he seemed 
to be dreaming of her, for he raised himself up 
in bed, kneeled down upon the miserable, dirty 
mattress, folded his hands and began to repeat in 
a loud voice the prayer w^hich his mother had 
taught him. 

The noise awakened Simon, who roused his 
wfife, to let her listen to the “ superstitious little 
monkey,” whom he would cure forever of his 
folly. 

He sprang out of bed, took a pitcher of cold 
water, that was standing on the table, and poured 
it upon the head of the kneeling boy. Louis 
Charles awoke with a shriek, and crouched down 
in alarm. But the whole bed was wet, only the 
pillow had been spared. The boy rose carefully, 
took the pillow, carried it into a corner of the 
room, and sat down upon it. But his teeth chat- 
tered with the cold in spite of himself. This 
awakened Simon a second time, just as he was 
dropping asleep. With a wild curse he jumped 
out of bed and dressed himself. 

“ That is right ! ” cried Jeanne Marie, bring 
the brat to his senses. Make little Capet know 
that he is to behave respectfully.” 


218 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


And Simon did make the poor boy understand 
it, sitting on the pillow, shivering in his wet shirt. 
He seized him by his shoulders, shook him angri- 
ly from one side to another, and shouted : “ I will 
teach you to say your Pater Nosier^ and get up in 
the night like a Trappist ! ” 

The boy remaining silent, Simon’s rage, which 
knew no bounds when he thought he was defied 
or met with stubbornness, entirely took posses- 
sion of him. He caught up his boot, whose sole 
was secured with large iron nails, and was on the 
point of hurling it at the head of the unoffending 
boy, when the latter seized his arm with convul- 
sive energy. 

“ What have I done to you, master, that you 
should kill me ? ” cried the little Louis. 

“ Kill you, you wolf-brat ! ” roared Simon. “ As 
if I wanted to, or ever had wanted to ! Oh, the 
miserable viper ! So you do not know that if I 
only took fairly hold of your neck, you never 
would scream again ! ” 

And with his powerful arm he seized the boy 
and hurled him upon the water-soaked bed. 
Louis lay down without a word, without a com- 
plaint, and remained there shivering and with 
chattering teeth until morning.^ 

From this period there was a change in the 
boy. Until this time his moist eyes had fixed 
themselves with a supplicating look upon his tor- 
mentors when they threatened him, but after this 
they were cast down. Until now he had al- 
ways sought to fulfil his master’s commands with 
great alacrity ; afterward he w^as indifferent, and 
made no effort to do so, for he had learned that it 
was all to no purpose, and that he must accept a 
fate of slavery and affliction. The face of the 
child, once so rosy and smiling, now took on a sad, 
melancholy expression, his cheeks were pale and 
sunken. The attractive features of his face were 
disfigured, his limbs grew to a length dispropor- 
tionate to his age ; his back bent into a bow, as 
if he felt the burden of the humiliations which 
were thrown upon him. When the child had 
learned that every thing that he said was twisted, 
turned into ridicule, and made the cause of chas- 


tisement, he was entirely silent, and only with the ] 
greatest pains could a word be drawn from him. 

This silence exasperated Simon, and made him 
furiously command the boy to sing, laugh, and be 
merry. At other times he would order Louis to 
be silent and motionless for hours, and to have 
nothing to do with the bird-cage, which was on 
the table, and which was the only thing left that 
the little fellow could enjoy. 

This cage held a number of birds, and a piece 
of mechanism, an automaton in the form of a 
bird, which ate like a living creature, drank, 
hopped from one bar to another, opened his bill, 
and sang the air which was so popular before the 
revolution, “ Oh, Richard ! oh, my king ! ” 

This article had been found among the royal 
apparel, and a compassionate official guard had 
told Simon about it, and induced him to apply to 
the authorities in charge of the Temple and ask 
for it for the little Capet. 

Simon, who, as well as his wife, could no more 
leave the building than their prisoner could, took j 
this solitary, confined life very seriously, and | 
longed for some way to mitigate the tedium. He 
therefore availed himself gladly of the offlcial’s 
proposition, and asked for the automaton, which | 
was granted by the authorities. The boy was 
delighted with the toy at first, and a pleased smile ' 
flitted over his face. But he soon became tired 
of playing with the thing and paid no attention 
to it. i 

“ Does not your bird please you any longer ? ” 
asked Miller, the offlcial, as he came one day to 
inspect, the Temple. “ Do you have no more 
sport with your canary ? ” 

The boy shook his head, and as Simon was in 
the next room and so could not strike him, he 
ventured to speak. i 

“ It is no bird,” he answered softly and quick- 
ly. “ But I should like to have a bird.” ' 

The good inspector nodded to the boy, and 
then went out to have a long talk with Simon, 
and so to avert any suspicion of being too familiar 
with, or too fond of, the prince. But after leav- 
ing the Temple he went to his friends and ac- 
quaintances, and told them, with tears in his eyes. 


* Beauchesne, “Louis XVII.,” vol. ii., p. 186. 


KING LOUIS Xyil. 


219 


about the little prisoner in the Temple, the “ dau- 
phin,” as the royalists used always to call him be- 
neath their breath, and how he wanted a living 
- bird. Every one was glad to have an opportunity 
of gratifying the wish of the dauphin, and on the 
’ next day Miller brought the prince a cage, in 
which were fourteen real canaries. 

“Ah ! those are real birds,” cried the child, as 
he took them one after the other and kissed them. 
The playing of the birds, which all lived in one 
great cage, together with the automaton, was now 
the only pleasure of the boy. He began to tame 
them, and among the little feathered flock he 
found one to which he was especially drawn, be- 
cause he was more quiet than the others, allowed 
itself to be easily caught, sat still on the finger of 
the prince, and, turning his little black eyes to 
the boy, warbled a litrle, sweet melody. At such 
moments the countenance of the boy beamed as 
it had done in the days of his happiness ; his 
cheeks flushed with color, and out of his large 
blue eyes, which rested with inexpressible tender- 
ness upon the bird, there issued the rays of intel- 
ligence and sensibility. He had now something 
to love, something to which all his gentle sympa- 
thies could flow out, which hitherto had all been 
suppressed beneath the harsh treatment of his 
■ keepers. 

He was no longer alone, he was no longer joy- 
less ! His little friend was there in the great 
cage among the twittering companions who were 
indifferent to the little prince. In order to know 
him at first sight, and always to be able to recog- 
nize him, Louis took the rose-colored ribbon from 
the neck of the automaton, and tied it around the 
neck of his darling. The bird sang merrily at 
this, and seemed to be as well pleased with the 
decoration as if it had been an order which King 
Louis of France was hanging around the neck of 
a favorite courtier. 

It was a fortunate thing for the boy that Simon 
himself was fond of birds, else the objections of 
his wife would soon have robbed the little fellow 
of his last-remaining comfort. It was for the 
keeper a little source of amusement, an interrup- 
tion in the dreadful monotony of his life. The 


birds were allowed to stay therefore, and their 
siuging and twittering animated a little the dark, 
silent rooms, and reminded him of the spring, the 
fresh air, the green trees ! 

But very soon this source of comfort and cheer 
was to be banished from the dismal place ! On 
the 19th of December, 1793, the inspectors of the 
Temple made their rounds. Just at the moment 
when they entered the room of the little Louis 
Capet, the automaton began to sing with his 
loud, penetrating voice, “Oh! Richard, oh my 
king ! ” 

The officials came to a halt upon the threshold, 
as though petrified at this unheard-of license, and 
fixed their cold, angry looks now upon the birds, 
now upon the boy, who was sitting upon his rush- 
chair before the cage, looking at the birds with 
beaming eyes. 

A second time the automaton began the unfor- 
tuate air, and the exasperated inspectors strode 
up to the cage. 

“ What does this mean ? ” asked one of them. 
“ How does any one dare to keep up, in the glo- 
rious republic, such worthless reminders of the 
cursed monarchy.” 

“ Only see,” cried another— “ see the order that 
one of the birds is wearing. It is plain that the 
old passion of royalty still lurks here, for even 
here ribbons are given away as signs of distinc- 
tion. The republic forbids such things, and we 
will not suffer such infamy.” 

The inspector put his hand into the cage, seized 
the little canary-bird with the red ribbon, and 
squeezed him so closely that the poor little crea- 
ture gave one faint chirp and died. The man 
drew him out, and hurled him against the wall of 
the room. 

The little boy said not a word, he uttered not 
a complaint; he gazed with widely-opened eyes 
at his dead favorite, and two great tears slowly 
trickled down his pale cheeks. 

The next day the inspectors gave a report of 
this occurrence, couched in terms of worthy in- 
dignation, and all hearts were stirred with right 
eous anger at the story of the automaton that 
sang the royal aria, and of the living bird that 


220 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


wore the badge of an order about its neck. They 
were convinced that the secret royalists were con- 
nected with this thing, and it was registered in 
the communal acts as “the conspiracy of the 
canary-bird.” 

The little winged conspirators, the automaton 
as well as the living birds, were of course in- 
stantly removed from the Temple ; and Simon had 
the double vexation of receiving a reprimand 
from the authorities, and then the losing his little 
merry companions from the prison. It was all 
the fault of this little, good-for-nothing boy, who 
knew how to make long faces, and allowed him- 
self to waken and disturb his master in the night 
by his crying and sobbing. 

“ The worthless viper has spoiled my sleep for 
me,” growled Simon the next morning. “ My 
head is as heavy as a bomb, and I shall have to 
take a foot-bath, to draw the blood away from my 
ears.” 

Jeanne Ma,rie silently carried her husband the 
leaden foot-bath, with the steaming water, and 
then drew back into the corner, in whose dismal 
shadow she often sat for hours, gazing idly at her 
“ calendar of the revolution,” the long stocking, 
on which traces of the blood of the queen were 
still visible. 

Meanwhile, Simon took his foot-bath, and while 
he did so, his wicked, malicious eyes now fell upon 
his wife, who had once been so cheerful and reso- 
lute, and who now had grown so sad and broken, 
now upon the boy, who, since yesterday, when his 
canaries had been taken from him, had spoken 
not a word, or made a sound, and who sat mo- 
tionless upon the rush-chair, folding his hands in 
his lap, and gazing at the place Avhere his dead 
bird lay yesterday. 

“ This life wmuld make one crazy,” growled 
Simon, with the tone of a hyena. “ Capet,” he 
cried aloud, “ take the towel and warm it at the 
chimney-fire, so as to wipe my feet.” 

Louis rose slowly from his chair, took the towel 
and crept to the chimney-fire to spread it out and 
warm it ; but the glow of the coals burned his 
little thin hands so badly, that he let the cloth 
fall into the fire, and before the trembling, fright- 


ened child had time to draw it back, the towel 
had kindled and was burning brightly. 

Simon uttered a howl of rage, and, as with his 
feet in the water he was not able to reach the 
boy, he heaped curses and abuse upon him, and 
not alone on him, but on his father and mother, 
till his voice w^as hoarse, and he was exhausted 
with this outpouring of his wrath. 

Deceived by the quiet which followed, little 
Louis took another towel, warmed it carefully at 
the chimney, and then cautiously approached his 
master, to wipe his feet. Simon extended them 
to the boy and let himself be served as if by a 
little slave ; but just as soon as his feet were dry 
he kicked the boy’s head with such force that 
without a cry Louis fell down, striking his head 
violently on the floor. Perhaps it w^as this piti- 
ful spectacle that exasperated the cobbler still 
more. He beat the unconscious boy, roused him 
with kicks and with the noise of his curses, raised 
his clinched fists and swore that he would now 
dash the viper in pieces, when he suddenly felt 
his hands grasped as in iron clamps, and to his 
boundless astonishment saw before him the pale, 
grim face of his wife, who had come out from 
her corner and fixed her black, glistening eyes 
upon him, while she held his hands firmly. 

“ What is it, Jeanne M^ie ? ” said Simon, sur- 
prised ! “ why are you holding me so ? ” 

“Because I do not want you to beat him to 
death,” she said, with a hoarse, rough voice. 

He broke out into loud laughter. “ I really be- 
lieve that the knitter of the guillotine has pity on 
the son of the she-wolf.” 

A convulsive quiver passed through her whole 
frame. A singular, gurgling sound came from her 
chest ; she put both her hands to her neck and 
tore the little kerchief olF, as if it were tied tight 
enough to strangle her. 

“No,” she said, in a suppressed tone, “no 
compassion on the wolf’s brood ! But if you 
beat him to death, they will have to bring you to 
the guiliotlne, that it may not appear as if they 
had ordered you to kill the little Capet.” 

“ True,” said Simon, “ you are right, and I 
thank you, Jeanne Marie, that you may remind 


KING LOUIS XVII. 


221 


me of it. It shows that you love me still, 
although you were always so quiet. Yes, yes, I 
will be more careful ; I will take care to beat the 
little serpent only so much that it may not bite, 
but cannot die.” 

Jeanne Marie made no reply, but sat down 
in the corner again, and took up her stocking, 
without touching the needles, however, and going 
on with her work. 

“ Get up, you cursed snake ! ” growled Simon, 
“ get up and go out of my sight, and do not stir me 
up again.” 

The child rose slowly from the floor, crept to 
the wash-basin and with his trembling, bruised 
hands wiped away the blood that was flowing out 
of his nose and mouth. 

A loud, gurgling sound came from the corner 
where JeaAne Marie sat. It seemed half like a 
cry, half like a sob. When Simon looked around, 
his wife lay pale and motionless on the floor ; she 
had sunk from her chair in a swoon. 

Simon grasped her in his strong arms and car- 
ried her to the bed, laid her gently and carefully 
down, and busied himself about her, showing a 
manifest anxiety. 

“She must not die,” he murmured, rubbing her 
temples with salt water ; “ she must not leave me 
alone in this horrible prison and with this dread- 
ful child. — Jeanne Marie, wake up, come to your- 
self!” She opened her eyes, and gazed at her 
husband with wild, searching looks. 

“ What is the matter, Jeanne Marie ? ” he 
asked. “ Have you pain ? Are you sick ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I am sick, I am in pain.” 

“ I will go to bring you a physician, you shall 
not die ! No, no, you shall not die, you shall 
have a physician. The Hotel Dieu is very near, 
they will certainly allow me to go as far as there, 
and bring a doctor for my dear Jeanne.” 

He was on the point of hastening away, but 
Jeanne Marie held him fast. “Remain here,” 
she murmured, “do not let me be alone with 
him — I am afraid of him 1 ” 

“ Of whom ? ” asked Simon, astonished ; and 
as he followed the looks of his wife, they rested 
on the boy, who was still busy in checking the 


blood that was flowing freely from his swollen 
nose. 

“ Of him 1 ” asked Simon, in amazement. 

Jeanne Marie nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, 
“ I am afraid of him, and I do not want to remain 
alone with him, for he would kill me.” Simon 
burst into a loud, hoarse laugh. “ Now I see that 
you are really sick, and the doctor shall come at 
once. But they certainly will not let me leave 
this place, for this despicable brat has made us 
both prisoners, the miserable, good-for-nothing 
thing ! ” 

“ Send him away ; let him go into his own 
room,” whispered Jeanne Marie. “ I cannot bear 
to see him ; he poisons my blood. Send him 
aw^ay, for I shall be crazy if I have to look at him 
longer.” 

“Away with you, you viper!” roared Simon; 
and the boy, who knew that he was meant — that 
the term viper w'as applied only to him — hastily 
dried his tears, and slipped through the open door 
into his little dark apartment. 

“Now I wdll run and call the porter,” said 
Simon, hurriedly ; “ he shall send some one to 
the Hotel Bicu, and bring a physician for my 
poor, dear, sick Jeanne Marie.” 

He hastened out, and turned back, after a few 
minutes, with the report that the porter himself 
had gone to bring a doctor, and that help would 
come at once. 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried Jeanne Marie ; “no doctor 
can help me, and there is nothing at all that I 
want. Only give me something to drink, Simon, 
for my throat burns like fire, and then call little 
Capet in, for in his dark room his eyes glisten 
like stars, and I cannot bear them.” 

Simon shook his head sadly ; and, wdiile holding 
a glass of cold water to her lips, he said to him- 
self: “Jeanne Marie is really sick! She has a 
lever ! But w^e must do what she orders, else it 
will come to delirium, and she might become 
insane.” 

And with a loud voice he called, “ Capet, Ca- 
pet ! come here, come here ! you viper, you wolf’s 
cub, come here 1 ” 

The boy obeyed the command, slowly crept into 


222 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


the room, and sat down in the rush-chair in the 
corner. “ He shall not look at me,” shrieked 
Jeanne Marie ; “he shall not look into my heart 
with his dreadful blue eyes, it hurts me — oh ! so 
much, so much ! ” 

“ Turn around, you viper ! ” said Simon. “ Look 
round this way again, or I’ll tear your eyes out 
of your head ! I — ” 

The door leading to the corridor now opened, 
and an old man, leaning on a cane, entered, wear- 
ing on his head a powdered peruke, his bent form 
covered with a black satin coat, beneath which a 
satin vest was seen ; on his feet, silk stockings 
and buckled shoes ; in his lace-encircled hand, a 
cane with a gold head. 

“ Well,” cried Simon, with a laugh, “ what sort 
of an old scarecrow is that ? And what does it 
want here ? ” 

“ The scarecrow wants nothing of you,” said 
the old man, in a kindly way, “ but you want 
something of it, citizen. You have sent for 
me.” 

“ Ah ! so you are the doctor from the Hotel 
Died.” 

“ Yes, my friend, I am Citizen Naudin.” 

“Naudin, the chief physician at the Hotel 
Dieu ? ” cried Simon. “ And you come yourself 
to see my sick wife ? ” 

“ Does that surprise you. Citizen Simon ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, it surprises me. For I have been 
told so often that Citizen Naudin, the greatest and 
most skilful physician in all Paris, never leaves 
the Hotel Dieu ; that the aristocrats and ci-de~ 
vanis have begged him in vain to attend them, 
and that even the Austrian woman, in the days 
v/hen she was queen, sent to no purpose to the 
celebrated Naudin, and begged him to come to 
Versailles. We heard that the answer was : ‘ I 
am the physician of the poor and the sick in 
the Hotel Dieu, and whoever is poor and sick 
may come to me in the house which bears the 
name of God. But whoever is too rich and too 
well for that, must seek another doctor, for my 
duties with the sick do not allow me to leave the 
Hotel Dieu.’ And after that answer reached the 
palace — so the great Doctor Marat told me — the 


queen had her horses harnessed, and drove to 
Paris, to consult Doctor Naudin at the Hotel 
Dieu, and to receive his advice. Is the story 
really true, and are you Doctor Naudin 1* ” 

“ The story is strictly true, and, my friend, I 
am Doctor Naudin.” 

“ And you now leave the Hotel Dieu to come 
and visit my sick wife ” asked Simon, with a 
pleasant look and a flattered manner. 

“ Does your wife not belong to my poor and 
sick ? ” asked the doctor. “ Is she not a woman 
of the people, this dear French people, to 'whom I 
have devoted my services and my life ? For a 
queen Doctor Naudin might not leave his hos- 
pital, but for a woman of the people he does it. 
And now, citizen, let me see your sick wife, for I 
did not come here to talk.” 

Without waiting for Simon’s answer, the phy- 
sician walked up to the bed, sat down on the chair 
in front of it, and began at once to investigate 
the condition of the woman, who reached him her 
feverish hand, and, with an almost inaudible voice, 
answered his professional questions. 

The cobbler stood at the foot of the bed, and 
directed his little cunning eyes to the physician 
in amazement and admiration. Behind him, in 
the corner, sat the son of Marie Antoinette, hu- 
miliated, still, and motionless. Yet, in spite of the 
injunction of Jeanne Marie, he had turned around, 
and was looking toward the bed ; but not to the 
knitter of the guillotine were his looks directed, 
but to this venerable old gentleman with his pow- 
dered peruke, his satin coat, silk stockings, 
breeches, shoe-buckles, gold embroidered waist- 
coat and lace ruffles. This costume reminded 
him of the past; the halls of Versailles came 
back to him, and he saw before him the shadowy 
figures of the cavaliers of that time, all clothed 
like the dear old gentleman who was sitting before 
the bed there. 

“ Why do you look at me in such a wondering 
way. Citizen Simon ? ” asked Naudin, who was 
now through with his examination. 

“ I really wonder — I really do wonder im- 
mensely,” said Simon, “ and that is saying 
much, for, in these times, when there are so 



THE DAUPHIN AND SIMON THE SHOEMAKER. P.223 






\ 


/ 



KING LOUIS XYII. 


223 


,i many changes, a man can hardly wonder at 
any thing. Still I do wonder, Citizen Naudin, 
[3* that you can venture to go around in this cos- 
i tume. That is the style of clothing worn by 
^ traitorous ci-devanis and aristocrats. Anybody 
else who dared put it on would have only one 
d more walk ta take, that to the guillotine, and yet 
i you venture to come here ! ” 

'• “ Venture ?” repeated Naudin, with a shrug. 

“ I venture nothing, citizen. I wear my clothes 
in conformity with a habit of years’ standing : 
i they fitted well under the monarchy, they fit just 
n as well under the republic, and I am not going to 
be such a fool as to put by my soft and comfort- 
L> able silk clothes, and put on your hateful, un- 
; comfortable thick ones, and strut about in them. 

1 I am altogether too old to take up the new fash- 
ions, and altogether too well satisfied with my 
own suit to learn how to wear your cloth coats 
with swallow-tails, and your leather hose and 
I top-boots. Defend me from crowding my old 
1 limbs into such stuffs ! ” 

j . “ Citizen doctor,” cried Simon, with a laugh, 

“you are a jolly, good old fellow, and I like you 
1 ' well. I do not blame you for preferring your 
comfortable silk ’clothes to the new style that our 
I revolutionary heroes have brought into mode, 

* that nothing might remind us of the- cursed, God- 
t< forsaken monarchy. I wonder merely that they 
i) allow it, and do not make you a head shorter ! ” 

■I 

“ But how would they go on with matters in the 
j Hotel Dieu ? Without a head nothing could be 

I done with the sick and the suffering, for with- 

I out a head there is no thinking. Now, as I am 

j: the head of the hospital, and as they have no 

head to take my place, and as, in spite of my old- 
fashioned clothes, my sick are cured, and have 
confidence in me, the great revolutionary heroes 
wink at me, and let me do as I please, for they 
' know that under the silk dress of an aristocrat 
^ beats the heart of a true democrat. But that is 
I not the question before us now, citizen. We 
7 want to talk about the health of your wife .here. 

She is sick, she has a fev^er, and it will be 
7 worse yet with her, unless we take prompt meas- 
J ures and provide a cooling drink for her.” 


“Do it, citizen doetor,” said Simon ; “make my 
Jeanne Marie well and bright again, or I shall go 
crazy here in this accursed house. Jeanne 
Marie is sick just with this, that she is not ac- 
customed to be idle, and to sit still and fold her 
hands in her lap, and run around like a wild 
beast in its cage. But here in the Temple it is 
no better than in a cage ; and I tell you, citizen, 
it is enough to make one crazy here, and it has 
made Jeanne sick to have no fresh air, no ex- 
ercise and work.” 

“ But why has she no exercise and no work ? 
Why does she not go out into the street and take 
the air ? ” 

“ Because she cannot,” cried Simon, passion- 
ately. “ Because the cursed little viper there em- 
bitters our whole life and makes us prisoners to 
this miserable, wretched prisoner. Look at him 
there, the infernal little wolf ! he is the one to 
blame that I cannot go into the street, cannot 
visit the clubs, the Convention, or any meeting, 
but must live here like a Trappist, or like an im- 
prisoned criminal. He is the one to blame 
that my wife can no longer take her place at 
the guillotine, and knit and go on with her work 
there.” 

“ Yes,” cried Jeanne Marie, with a groan, rais- 
ing her head painfully from the pillow, “ he is to 
blame for it all, the shameless rascal. He has 
made me melancholy and sad ; he has worried, 
and vexed, and changed me ! Oh ! oh ! he is look- 
ing at me again, and his eyes burn into my 
heart ! ” 

“ Miserable viper,” cried Simon, dashing tow- 
ard the boy with clinched fists, “ how dare you 
turn your hateful eyes toward her, after her ex- 
pressly forbidding it ? Wait, I will teach you to 
disobey, and give you a lesson that you will not 
forget.” 

His heavy hand fell on the back of the boy, and 
was raised again for a second stroke, when it was 
held as in an iron vice. 

“ You good-for-nothing, what are you doing ? ” 
cried a thundering voice, and two blazing eyes 
flashed on him from the reddened face of Doctor 
Naudin. 


224 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Simon’s eyes fell before the angry look of the 
physician, then he broke out into a loud laugh. 

“ Citizen doctor, I say, what a jolly fellow you 
are,” he said, merrily. “You did that just as if 
you were in a theatre, and you called out to me 
just as they call out to the murderers in a trage- 
dy, What do you make such a halloo about 
when I chastise the wolfs cub a bit, as he has 
richly deserved ? ” 

“It is true,” said Naudin, “ I was a little hasty. 
“But that comes from the fact, citizen, that I not 
only held you to be a good republican, but a good 
man as well, and therefore it pained me to see 
you do a thing which becomes neither a republi- 
can nor a good man.” 

“ Why, what have I done that is not proper ? ” 
asked Simon, in amazement. 

“ Look at him, the poor, beaten, swollen, stupe- 
fied boy,” said Naudin, solemnly, pointing to 
Louis, who sat on his chair, weeping and trem- 
bling in all his limbs — “ look at him, citizen, and 
then do not ask me again what you have done 
that is not proper.” 

“Well, but he deserves nothing better,” cried 
Simon, with a sneer. “ He is the son of the she- 
wolf, Madame Veto.” 

“ He is a human being,” said Doctor Naudin, 
solemnly, “and he is, besides, a helpless boy, 
whom the one, indivisible, and righteous republic 
deprived of his father and mother, and put under 
your care to be educated as if he were a son of 
your own. I ask you, citizen, would you have 
struck a son of your own as you just struck this 
boy ? ” 

A loud, convulsive sob came from the bed on 
which Jeanne Marie lay, and entirely confused 
and disturbed Simon. 

“No,” he said, softly, “perhaps I should not 
have done it. But,” continued he eagerly, and 
with a grim look, “ a child of my own would not 
have tried and exasperated me as this youngster 
does. From morning till evening he vexes me, 
for he does nothing that I want him to. If I or- 
der him to sing with me, he is still and stupid, 
and when he ought to be still he ^rnakes a noise. 
Would you believe me, citizen, this son of the 


she-wolf leaves me no quiet for sleep. Lately, in 
the night, he kneeled down in the bed and began 
to pray with a loud voice, so as to wake both my 
wife and myself.” 

“ From that night on I have been sick and mis- 
erable,” moaned Jeanne Marie ; “ from that night 
I have not been able to sleep.” 

“ You hear, citizen doctor, my wife was so ter- 
rified with that, that it made her sick, and now ' 
you shall have a proof of the disobedience of the 
little viper. Capet, come here.” ' 

The boy rose slovdy from his chair, and stole 
along with drooping head to his master. 

“Capet, we will sing,” said Simon. “You 
shall show the doctor that you are a good republi- 
can, and that you have entirely forgotten that you 
are the son of the Austrian, the rascally Madame 
Veto. Come, we will sing the song about Ma- 
dame Veto. Quick, strike in, dr I will beat you 
into pulp. The song about Madame Veto, do you 
hear ? Sing ! ” 

A short pause ensued. Then the boy raised his 

sw'ollen face and fixed his great blue eyes with a 

defiant, flaming expression upon the face .of th^ 

% 

cobbler. 

“ Citizen,” he said, with clear, decided tones, 
“I shall not sing the song about Madame Veto, 
for I have not forgotten my dear mamma, and I 
can sing nothing bad about her, for I love my 
dear mamma so much, so much, and — ” 

The voice of the boy was drowned in his tears ; 
he let his head fall upon his breast, ready to re- 
ceive the threatened chastisement. But, before 
the fist of Simon, already raised, could fall upon 
the poor head of the little sufferer, a thrilling cry 
of pain resounded from the bed. 

“ Simon, come to me,” gasped Jeanne Marie. 

“ Help me draw the dagger out of my breast, I am 
dying — oh, I am dying ! ” 

“ What kind of a dagger V’ cried Simon, rush- 
ing to the bed and taking the convulsed form of 
his wife in his arms. 

“ Hush ! ” whispered the doctor, who also had 
goije to the bed of the sick woman — “ hush ! she 
is speaking in her fever, and the dagger of which 
, she talks she feels in her heart and conscience. 


KING LOUIS XVII. 


225 


You must spare her, citizen, if you do not want 
her to die. Every thing must be quiet around 
her, and you must be very careful not to agitate 
her nerves, lest she have an acute typhoid fever. 
I will send her some cooling medicine at once, 
and to-morrow morning I will come early to see 
how it fares with her. But, above every thing 
else, Simon, remember to have quiet, that your 
good wife may get well again.” 

“ Who would have told me two weeks ago that 
Jeanne Marie had nerves ? ” growled Simon. “ The 
first knitter of the guillotine, and now all at once 
nerves and tears, but I must be careful of her. 
For it would be too bad if she should die and 
leave me all alone with this tedious youngster. I 
could not hold out. I should run away. Go, 
Capet, get into your room, and do not get in my 
way again to-da'y, else I will strangle you before 
you can make a, sound. Come, scud, clear, and 
do not let me see you again, if your life is worth 
any thing to you.” 

The child stole into his room again, sat down 
upon the floor, folded his little hands in one an- 
other, fixed his great blue eyes on the ceiling 
above, and held his breath to listen to every little 
sound, every footfall that came from the room 
above. 

All at once he heard plainly the steps of some 
one walking up and down, and a pleased smile 
flitted across the face of the boy.' 

“ That is certainly my dear mamma,” he whis- 
pered to himself. “Yes, yes, it is my mamma 
queen, and she is taking her walk in the sitting- 
room, just as she has done since she has not been 
allowed to go out upon the platform. Oh, mam- 
ma, my dear mamma, I love you so much ! ” 

And the child threw a kiss up to the ceiling, 
not knowing that she to whom he sent his greet- 
ing had long been resting in the silent grave, and 
that with the very hand which was throwing 
kisses to her, he had himself signed the paper 
which heaped upon his mother the most frightful 
calumnies. 

Even Simon had not had the cruel courage to 
tell the boy of the death of his mother, and of 
the unconscious wrong that he, poor child, had 
15 


done to her memory, aud in his silent chamber 
his longing thoughts of her were his only consola- 
tion. 

And so he sat there that day looking up to the 
ceiling, greeting -his dear mamma with his 
thoughts, and seeing her in spirit greeting him 
again, nodding affectionately to him and drawing 
her dear little Louis Charles to her arms. 

These were the sweet, transporting fancies 
which made the child close his eyes so as not to 
lose them. Immovably he sat there, until grad 
ually thoughts and dreams flowed into each other, 
and not only his will, but sleep as well, kept his 
eyes closed. But the dreams remained, and were 
sweet and refreshing, and displayed to the sleep- 
ing child, so harshly treated in his waking hours, 
only scenes of love and tenderness. And it was 
not his mother alone who embraced him in his 
happy slumbers ; no, there were his aunt and his 
sister as well, and at last even — oh how strange 
dreams are ! — at last he even saw Simon’s wife 
advancing toward him with kindly and tender 
mien. She stooped down to him, took him up in 
her arms, kissed his eyes, and begged him in a 
low, trembling voice to forgive her for being so 
cruel and bad. And while she was speaking the 
tears streamed from her eyes and flowed over his 
face. She kissed them away with her hot lips, 
and whispered, “ Forgive me, poor, unhappy an- 
gel, and do not bring me to judgment. I will 
treat you well after this, I will rescue you from 
this hell, or I will die for you. Oh, how the bad 
man has beaten your dear angel face ! But believe 
me, I have felt every blow in my own heart, and 
when he treated you so abusively I felt the pain 
of hell. Oh, forgive me, dear boy, forgive me! ” 
and again the tears started from her eyes and 
flowed hot over his locks and forehead. All at 
once Jeanne Marie quivered convulsively, laid the 
boy gently down, and ran hastily away. A door 
was furiously opened now, and Simon’s loud and 
angry voice was heard. 

The tones awakened the little Louis. He 
opened his eyes and looked around. Yes, it had 
really all been only a dream — he had heard nei- 
ther his mother nor Simon’s wife, and yet it had 


226 


MAKIE ANTOIISHETTE AND HER SON. 


been as natural as if it had all really transpired. 
He had felt arms tenderly embracing him and 
tears hot upon his forehead. 

Entirely unconscious he raised his hand to his 
brow and drew it back affrighted, for his hair and 
his temples were wet, as if the tears of which he 
dreamed had really fallen there. • 

“ What does this mean, Jeanne Marie ? ” asked 
Simon, angrily. ‘‘ Why have you got out of bed 
while I was away, and what have you had to do 
in the room of the little viper ? ” 

If you leave me alone with him I have to 
watch him, sick as I am,” moaned she. “ I had 
to see whether he was still there, whether he had 
not run away, and gone to report to the Conven- 
tion that we have left him alone and have no care 
for him.” 

“ Oh, bah \ he will not complain of us,” laughed 
Simon ; “ but keep quiet, Jeanne Marie, I prom- 
ise you that I will not leave you alone again with 
the wolf’s cub. Besides, here is the medicine that 
the doctor has sent, and to-morrow he will come 
himself again to see how you get on. So keep up 
a good heart, Jeanne Marie, and all will come right 
again.” 

The next morning. Dr. Naudin came again to 
look after the sick woman. Simon had just gone 
up-stairs to announce something to the two prin- 
cesses in the name of the Convention, and had 
ordered the little Capet to remain in the ante- 
room, and, if the doctor should come, to open the 
door to him. 

Nobody else was in the anteroom when Dr. 
Naudin entered, and the door leading into the 
next room was closed, so that the sick person who 
was there could see and hear nothing of what took 
place. 

‘‘Sir,” whispered the boy, softly and quickly, 
“ you were yesterday so good to me, you protected 
me from blows, and I should like to thank you 
for it.” 

The doctor made no reply, but he looked at 
the boy with such an expression of sympathy that 
he felt emboldened to go on. 

“ My dear sir,” continued the child, softly, and 
with a blush, “I have nothing with which to show 


my gratitude to you but these two pears that were 
given me for my supper last night. And just 
because I am so poor, you would do me a great 
pleasure if you would accept my two pears.” * 

He had raised his eyes to the doctor with a 
gentle, supplicatory expression, and taking the 
pears from the pocket of his worn, mended jacket, 
he gave them to the physician. 

Then happened something which, had Simon 
entered the room just then, would probably have 
filled him with exasperation. It happened that 
the proud and celebrated Dr. Naudin, the director 
and first physician of the Hotel Dieu, sank on his 
knee before this poor boy in the patched jacket, 
who had nothing to give but two pears, and that 
he was so overcome, either by inward pain or by 
reverence, that while taking the pears he could 
only whisper, with a faint voice : “ I thank your 
majesty. I have never received a nobler or more 
precious gift than this fruit, which my unfortu- 
nate king gives me, and I swear to you that I 
will be your devoted and faithful servant.” 

It happened further that Dr. Naudin pressed to 
his lips the hand that reached him the precious 
gift, and that upon this hand two tears fell from 
the eyes of the physician, long accustomed to 
look upon human misery and pain, and which 
had not for years been sufiused with moisture. 

Just then, approaching steps being heard in 
the corridor, the doctor rose quickly, concealed 
the pears in his pocket, and entered the chamber 
of the sick woman at the same instant when 
Simon returned from his visit above-stairs. 

The boy slipped, with the doctor, into the sick- 
room, and as no one paid any attention to him, 
he stole softly into his room, crouched down upon 
his straw bed, with fluttering heart, to think over 
all he had experienced or dreamed of that day. 

“And how is it with our sick one to-day?” 
asked Doctor Naudin, sitting down near the bed, 
and giving a friendly nod to Simon to do the 
same. 

“It goes badly with me,” moaned Mistress 
Simon. “My heart seems to be on fire, and I 

* The boy’s own words. — See Beauchesne, voL it, p. 
189 . 


KING LOUIS XVn. 


227 


. have no rest day or night. I believe that it is 
all over with me, and that I shall die, and that is 
the best thing for me, for then I shall be free 
again, and not have to endure the torments that 
. I have had to undergo in this dreadful dungeon.” 

“ What kind of pains are they ? ” asked the 
doctor. “ Where do you suffer ? ” 

“ I will tell you, citizen doctor,” cried Simon, im- 
patiently. “ Her pains are everywhere, in every 
corner of this lonely and cursed building ; and if it 
goes on so long, we shall have to pack and move. 
The authorities have done us both a great honor, 
for they have had confidence , enough in us to give 
the little Capet into our charge ; but it is our mis- 
fortune to be so honored, and we shall both die 
of it. For, not to make a long story of it, we 
• both cannot endure the air of the prison, the 
stillness and solitude, and it is a dreadful thing 
for us to see nothing else the whole day than 
. the stupid face of this youngster, always looking 
- at me so dreadfully with his great blue eyes, that 
it really affects one. We are neither of us used 
to such an idle, useless life, and it will be the 
death of us, citizen doctor. My wife, Jeanne 
Marie, whom you see lying there so pale and still, 
used to be the liveliest and most nimble woman 
about, and could do as much with her strong 
arms and brown hands as four other women. 

. And then she was the bravest and most outra- 
geous republican that ever was, when it came to 
' battling -for the people. We both helped to 
storm the Bastile, both went to Versailles that 
time, and afterward took the wolf’s brood from 
the Tuileries and brought them to the Convention. 
Afterward Jeanne Marie was always the first on 
the platform near the guillotine ; and when Sam- 
son and his assistants mounted the scaffold in the 
morning, and waited for the cars, the first thing 
they did was to look over to the tribune to see if 
Mistress Simon was there with her knitting, for it 
used to seem to them that the work of hewing off 
heads went^more briskly on if Jeanne Marie was 
there and kept the account in her stocking. Sam- 
son himself told me this, and said to me that 
Jeanne Marie was the bravest of all the women, 
and that she never trembled, and that her eyes 


never turned away, however many heads fell into 
the basket. And she was there too when the 
Austrian — ” 

“ Hush ! ” cried Jeanne Marie, rising up hastily 
in bed, and motioning to her husband to be silent. 
“ Do not speak of that, lest the youngster hear it, 
and turn his dreadful eyes upon us. Do not speak 
of that fearful day, for it was then that my sick- 
ness began, and I believe that there was poison in 
the brandy that we drank that evening. Yes, 
yes, there was poison in it, and from that comes 
the fire that burns in my heart, and I shall die of 
it. Oh ! I shall burn to death with it ! ” 

She put her hands before her face and sank 
back upon the pillows, sobbing. Simon shook 
his head, and heaved a deep sigh. “ It is not 
that,” murmured he ; “ it is not from that, doctor ! 
The thing is, that Jeanne Marie has no work and 
no exercise, and that she is going to wreck, be- 
cause we are compelled to live here as kings and 
aristocrats used to live, without labor and occu- 
pation, and without doing any more than to 
nurse our fancies. We shall all die of this, T 
tell you ! ” 

“But if you know this, citizen, why do you not 
give up your situation ? Why do you not peti- 
tion the authorities to dismiss you from this ser- 
vice, and give 3’ou something else to do ? ” 

“I have done that twice already,” answered 
Simon, bringing his fist down upon the table near 
the bed so violently that the bottles of medicine 
standing there were jerked high into the air. 
“Twice already have I tried to be transferred to 
some other duty, and the answer has been sent 
back, that the country orders me to stand at my 
post, and that there is no one who could take my 
place.” 

“That is very honorable and flattering,” re- 
marked the physician. 

“ Yes, but very burdensome and disagreeable,” 
answered Simon. “We are prisoners while hold- 
ing these honorable and flattering posts. We can 
no more leave the Temple than Capet can, for, 
since his father died, and the crazy legitimists 
began to call him King Louis XVII., the chief 
magistrate and the Convention have been very 


228 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


anxious. They are afraid of secret conspiracies, 
and consider it possible that the little prisoner 
may be taken away from here by intrigue. We 
have to watch him day and night, therefore, and 
are never allowed to leave the Temple, lest we 
should meet with other people, and lest the legiti- 
mists should make the attempt to get into our 
good graces. Would you believe, citizen doctor, 
that they did not even allow me to go to the 
grand festival which the city of Paris gave in 
honor of the taking of Toulan ! While all the 
people were shouting, and having a good time, 
Jeanne Marie and I had to stay here in this good- 
for-nothing Temple, and see and hear nothing of 
the fine doings. And this drives the gall into my 
blood, and it will make us both sick, and it is past 
endurance ! ” 

“I believe that you are right, citizen,” said the 
physician, thoughtfully. “ Yes, the whole trouble 
of your wife comes from the fact that she is here 
in the Temple, and if she must be shut up here 
always she will continue to suffer.” 

“Yes, to suffer always, to suffer dreadfully,” 
groaned Jeanne Marie. Then, all at once, she 
raised herself up and turned with a commanding 
bearing to her husband. 

“ Simon,” she said, “ the doctor shall know all 
that I suffer. He shall examine my breast, and 
the place where I have the greatest pain ; but in 
your presence I shall say nothing.” 

“Well, well, I will go,” growled Simon. “ But 
I think those are pretty manners ! ” 

“They are the manners of a respectable and 
honorable woman,” said the doctor, gravely — “ a 
woman who does not show the pains and ailments 
of her body to any one excepting her physician. 
Go, go, Citizen Simon, and you will esteem your 
good wife none the less for not letting you hear 
what she has to say to her old physician.” 

“No, certainly not,” answered Simon, “and 
that you may both see that I am not curious to 
hear what you have to say to one another, I will 
go with the youngster up to the platform and re- 
main a whole hour with him.” 

“You will beat him again, and I shall hear 
him,” said Jeanne Marie, weeping. “I hear 


every thing now that goes on in the Temple and 
whenever you strike the youngster, I feel every 
blow in my brain, and that gives me pain enough 
to drive me to distraction.” 

“ I promise you, Jeanne Marie, that I will not 
strike him, and will not trouble myself about him 
at all. He can play with his ball. — Halloa, Capet ! 
Come! We are going up on the platform. Take 
your ball and any thing else you like, for you 
shall play to-day and have a good time.” 

The child stole out of his room with his ball, 
not looking particularly delighted, and the pros- 
pect of “playing” did not give wings to his 
steps, nor call a smile to his swollen face. He 
left the room noiselessly, and Simon slammed the 
doors violently behind him. 

“ And now we are alone,” said Doctor Naudin, 
“ and you can tell me about your sickness, and 
about every thing that troubles you.” 

“ Ah, doctor, I do not dare to,” she whispered. 
“I am overpowered by a dreadful fear, and I 
think you will betray me, and bring my husband 
and myself to the scaffold.” 

“ I am no betrayer,” answered the doctor, 
solemnly. “The physician is like a priest; he 
receives the secrets and disclosures of his pa- 
tients, and lets not a word of them pass his lips. 
But, in order that you may take courage, I will 
first prove to you that I put confidence in you, by 
showing you that I understand you. I will tell 
you what the disease is that you are suffering 
from, and also its locality. Jeanne Marie Simon, 
you are enduring that with which no pains of the 
body can be compared. Your sickness has its 
seat in the conscience, and its name is remorse 
and despair.” 

Jeanne Marie uttered a heart-rending cry, and 
sprang like an exasperated tiger from her bed. 
“You lie!” she said, seizing the doctor’s arm 
wdth both hands ; “ that is a foul, damnable cal- 
umny, that you have thought out merely to bring 
me under the axe. I have nothing to be sorry 
for, and my conscience fills me with no re- 
proaches.” 

“And yet it is gnawing into you with iron 
teeth, which have been heated blood-red in the 


KING LOUIS XVII. 


229 


fires of hell,” said the doctor, with a compassion- 
ate look at the pale, quivering face of the woman. 
“ Do not raise any quarrel, but quietly listen to 
me. We have an hour’s time to talk together, 
and we want to use it. But let us speak softly, 
softly, together ; for what we have to say to each 
other the deaf walls themselves ought not to 
hear.” 

Simon had not returned from the platform with 
the boy, when Doctor Naudin ended his long and 
earnest conversation, and prepared to leave his 
patient, who was now quietly lying in her bed. 

“You know every thing now that you have to 
do,” he said, extending his hand to her. “ You 
can reckon on me as I reckon on you, and we will 
both go bravely and cheerluiiy on. It is a noble 
work that we have undertaken, and if it succeeds 
your heart will be light again, and God will for- 
give you your sins, for two martyrs will stand 
and plead in your behalf at the throne of God ! 
Now, do every thing exactly as I have told you, 
and speak with your husband to-night, but not 
sooner, that you may be safe, and for fear that in 
his first panic his face would betray him.” 

“ I shall do every thing just as you wish,” 
said Jeanne Marie, who had suddenly become 
humble and bashful, apparently entirely forgetful 
of the republican “thou.” “It seems to me, now 
that I have disburdened my heart to you, that I 
have become well and strong again, and certainly 
I shall owe it to you if I do live and get my 
health once more. But shall you come again to- 
morrow, doctor ? ” 

“No,” he replied, “I will send a man to-mor- 
row who understands better than I do how to 
continue this matter, and to whom you can give 
unconditional confidence. He will announce him- 
self to you as my assistant, and you can talk over 
at length every thing that we have been speaking 
of. Hush! I hear Simon coming ! Farewell!” 

He nodded to Jeanne Marie, and hastily left 
the room. Outside, in the corridor, he met Simon 
and his silent young ward. 

“ Well, citizen doctor,” asked Simon, “ how is 
it with our sick one ? She has intrusted all her 
secrets to you, and they must have made a 


long story, for you have been a whole hour to- 
gether. It is fortunate that you are an old man, 
or else I should have been jealous of your long 
tete-d-tHe with my wife.” 

“ Then you would be a great fool, and I have 
always held you to be a prudent and good man. 
But, as concerns your wife, I must tell you some- 
thing very serious, and I beg you. Citizen Simon, 
to mark my words well. I tell you this : unless 
your wife Jeanne Marie is out of this Temple in 
less than a week, and enjoys her freedom, sh^ 
will either lose her senses or take her life. I 
will say to you this, besides : if Citizen Simon does 
not, as soon as possible, leave this cursed place 
and give up his hateful business, it will be the 
same with him as with his wife. He will not be- 
come insane, but he will lapse into melancholy, 
and if he does not take his own life consump- 
tion will take it for him, the result of his idle, 
listless life, the many vexations here, and the 
wretched atmosphere of the Temple.” 

“ Consumption ! ” cried Simon, horrified. “ Do 
you suppose I am exposed to that ? ” 

“You have it already,” said the doctor, solemn- 
ly. “ Those red spots on your cheeks, and the 
pain which you have so often in the breast, an- 
nounce its approach. I tell you that if you do 
not take measures to leave the Temple in a week, 
in three months you will be a dead man, without 
giving the guillotine a chance at you. Good-by ! 
Consider well what I say, citizen, and then do as 
you like ! ” 

“ He is right,” muttered Simon, as he looked 
after the doctor with a horrified look, as Naudin 
descended the staircase; “yes, I see, he is right. 
If I have to stay here any longer, I shall die. 
The vexations and the loneliness, and — some- 
thing still more dreadful, frightful, that I can tell 
no one of — have made me sick, and the stitch in 
my side will grow worse and worse every day, 
and — I must and will get away from here,” he 
said aloud, and with a decided air. “ I will not 
die yet, neither shall Jeanne Marie. To-morrow 
I will hand in my resignation, and then be 
away ! ” 

While Simon was walking slowly and thought- 


230 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


fully toward his wife, Doctor Naudin left the dark 
building, went with a light heart out into the 
street, and returned with a quick step to the 
Hotel Dieu. The porter who opened the door 
for him, reported to him that during his absence 
the same old gentleman who had come the day 
before to consult him, had returned and was wait- 
ing for him in the anteroom. 

Doctor Naudin nodded, and then walked quickly 
toward his own apartments. Before the door he 
f©und his servant. 

“Old Doctor Saunier is here again,’’ he said, 
taking off his master’s cloak. “ He insisted on 
w’aiting for you. He said that he must consult 
you about a patient, and would not cease beg- 
ging till you should consent to accompany him 
to the sick person’s house. For, if a case seemed 
desperate, the great Naudin might still save it.” 

“ You are an ass for letting him talk such non- 
sense, and for believing it yourself. Citizen Joly,” 
cried Naudin with a laugh, and then entering the 
anteroom. 

An old gentleman, clad in the same old-fash- 
ioned costume with Doctor Naudin, came forward. 
Citizen Joly, as he closed the door somewhat 
slowly, heard him say : “ Thank God that you 

have come at last, citizen ! I have waited for you 
impatiently, and now I conjure you to accompany 
me as quickly as possible to my patient.” 

Naudin, opening the door of his study, said in 
reply, “ Come in. Citizen Saunier, and tell me first 
how it is with your sick one.” 

Nothing more could Joly, Naudin’s servant, un- 
derstand, for the two doctors had gone into the 
study, and the door was closed behind them. 
After a short time, however, it was opened. 
Naudin ordered the valet to order a fiacre at 
once, and a few minutes later Director Naudin 
rode away at the side of Doctor Saunier. 

At a house in the Rue Montmartre the car- 
riage stopped, and the two physicians entered. 
The porter, opening the little, dusty window of 
his lodge, nodded confidentially to Saunier. 

“ That is probably the celebrated Doctor Nau- 
din of the H6tel Dieu, whom you have with 
you ? ” he asked. 


“ Yes, it is he,” answered Saunier, “ and A 
anybody can help our patient, it is he. Citizen 
Crage is probably at home ? ” 

“ Certainly he is at home, for you know he 
never leaves' his sick boy. You will find him 
above. You know the way, citizen doctor ! ” 

The two physicians passed on, ascended the 
staircase, and entered the suit of rooms whose 
door was only partially closed — ^left ajar, as it 
seemed, for them. Nobody came to meet them, 
but they carefully closed the door behind them, 
drew the bolt, and then walked silently and 
quickly across the anteroom to the opposite door. 

Doctor Saunier knocked softly three times 
with a slight interval between, and cried three 
times with a loud voice, “ The two physicians are 
come to see the patient.” 

A bolt was withdrawn on the inside, the door 
opened, and a tall man’s figure appeared and mo- 
tioned to the gentlemen to come in. 

“Are we alone?” whispered Doctor Saunier, as 
they entered the inner room. 

“Yes, entirely alone,” answered the other. 
“ There in the chamber lies my poor sick boy, and 
you know well that he can betray no one, and 
that he knows nothing of what is going on around 
him.” 

“ Yes, unfortunately, I know that,” answered 
Doctor Saunier sadly. “ I promised you that I 
would bring you the most celebrated and skil- 
ful physician in Paris, and you see I keep my 
word, for I have brought you Doctor Naudin, the 
director of the Hotel Dieu and — ^the friend and 
devoted servant of the royal family, to whom we 
have both sworn allegiance until death. Doctor 
Naudin, I have not given you the name of the gen- 
tleman to whom I was taking you. It is a se- 
cret which only the possessor is able to divulge to 
you.” 

“ I divulge it,” said the other, smiling, “ Doc- 
tor Naudin, I am the Marquis Jarjayes.” 

“ Jarjayes, who made the plan for the escape of 
the royal family in the Temple ? ” asked Naudin 
eagerly. “ Marquis Jarjayes, who lost his prop- 
erty in the service of the queen, risked his life 
in her deliverance, and perhaps escaped the guil 


KING LOUIS XVII. 


231 


lotine merely by emigrating and putting himself 
beyond the reach of Robespierre. Are you that 
loyal, courageous Marquis de Jarjayes ? ” 

“ I am Jarjayes, and I thank you for the praises 
you have given me, but I cannot accept them in 
the presence of him who merits them all much 
more than I do, and who is more worthy of praise 
than any one else. No, I can receive no com- 
mendation in the presence of Toulan, the most 
loyal, the bravest, the most prudent of us all ; for 
Toulan is the soul of every thing, and our martyr 
queen confessed it in giving him the highest of 
all titles of honor, in calling him Fidele, a title 
which will remain for centuries.” 

“ Yes, you are right,” said Dr. Naudin, laying 
his hand on the shoulder of Dr, Saunier. “ He 
is the noblest, most loyal, and bravest of us all. 
On that account, when he came to me a few days 
ago and showed me the golden salt’s-bottle of the 
queen in confirmation of his statement that he 
was Toulan, I was ready to do every thing that he 
might desire of me and to enter into all his plans, 
for Toulan’s magnanimity and fidelity are con- 
tagious, and excite every one to emulate him.” 

“ I beg you, gentlemen,” said Toulan softly, 
“ do not praise me nor think that to be heroism 
which is merely natural. I have devoted to 
Queen Marie Antoinette my life, my thought, my 
heart. I swore upon her hand that so long as I 
lived I would be true to her and her family, and 
to keep ray vow is simple enough. Queen Marie 
Antoinette is no more. I was not able to save 
her, but perhaps she looks down from the heav- 
enly heights upon us, and is satisfied with us, if 
she sees that we are now trying to do for her son 
what, unfortunately, we were not able to accom- 
plish for her. This is my hope, and this spurs 
me on to attempt every thing, in order to bring 
about the last wish of my queen — the freeing of 
her son. God in His grace has willed that I 
should not be alone in this effort, and that I 
should have the cooperation of noble men. ' He 
visibly blesses our plans, for is it not a manifest 
sign of His blessing that, exactly in those days 
when we are trying to find a means of approach- 
ing the unhappy, imprisoned son of the queen. 


accident affords us this means ? Exactly at the 

/ 

hour when I went to Dr. Naudin and disclosed 
myself to him, the porter of the Temple came and 
desired in behalf of Simon’s wife that Dr. Naudin 
should go to the Temple.” 

“Yes, indeed, it was a wonderful occurrence,” 
said Naudin, thoughtfully. “ I am not over- 
blessed with sensibility, but when I saw the son 
of the queen in his sorrow and humiliation, I sank 
on my knee before the poor little king, and in my 
heart I swore that Toulan should find in me a 
faithful coadjutor in his plan, and that I would do 
every thing to set him free.” 

“And so have I too sworn,” cried Jarjayes, 
with enthusiasm. “ The queen is dead, but our 
fidelity to her lives and shall renew itself to her 
son. King Louis XVII. I know well that the po- 
lice are watching me, that they know who is secret- 
ing himself here under the name of Citizen Orage, 
that they follow every one of my steps and perhaps 
suffer me to be free only for the purpose of see- 
ing with whom I have relations, in order to arrest 
and destroy me at one fell swoop, with all my 
friends at the same time. But we must use the 
time. I have come here with the firm determina- 
tion of delivering the unhappy young king from 
the hands of his tormentors, and I will now con- 
fess every thing to you, my friends. I have 
gained for our undertaking the assistance and 
protection of a rich and noble patron, a true ser- 
vant of the deceased king. The Prince de Cond^, 
with whom I have lived in Vendee for the past 
few months, has furnished me with ample means, 
and is prepared to support us to any extent in our 
undertaking. If we succeed in saving the young 
king, the latter will find in Vendee a safe asylum 
with the prince, and will live there securely, sur- 
rounded by his faithful subjects. The immense 
difficulty, or, as I should have said a few days 
ago, the impossibility, is the release of the young 
prince from the Temple. But now that I have 
succeeded in discovering Toulan and uniting my- 
self with him, I no longer say it is impossible, but 
only it is difficult.” 

“ And,” cried Toulan, “ since I am sure of the 
assistance of the noble Doctor Naudin, I say, we 


232 


MARIE ANTOIISTETTE AND HER SON. 


'will free him, the son of our Queen Marie Antoi- 
nette, the young King Louis XVII. ! The plan is 
entirely ready in my head, and in order to make 
its execution possible, I went a few days ago to 
see Doctor Naudin at the Hotel Dieu, in order to 
beg him to visit the sick boy that the marquis 
has here, and just at that moment Simon’s mes- 
senger came to the Temple. Doctor Naudin is 
now here, and first of all it is necessary that he 
give us his last, decisive judgment on the patient. 
So take us to him, marquis, for upon Naudin’s 
decision depends the fate of the young King of 
France.” 

The marquis nodded silently, and conducted 
the gentlemen into the next room. There, care- 
fully propped up by mattresses and pillows, lay a 
child of perhaps ten years — a poor, unfortunate 
boy, with pale, sunken cheeks, fixed blue eyes, 
short fair hair, and a stupid, idiotic expression on 
his features. As the three gentlemen came to 
him he fixed his eyes upon them in a cold, in- 
different way, and not a quiver in his face dis- 
closed any interest in them. Motionless and pale 
as death the boy lay upop his bed, and only the 
breath that came hot and in gasps from his breast 
disclosed that there was still life in this poor 
shattered frame. 

Doctor Naudin stooped down to the boy and 
looked at him a long time with the utmost atten- 
tion. 

“ This boy is perfectly deaf ! ” he then said, 
raising himself up and looking at the marquis in- 
quiringly, 

“ Yes, doctor, your sharp eye has correctly dis- 
cerned it ; he is perfectly deaf.” 

“ Is it your son ? ” 

“ No, doctor, he is the son of my sister, the 
Baroness of Tardif, who was guillotined together 
with her husband. I undertook, the care of this 
unfortunate child, and at my removal from Paris 
gav^ him to some faithful servants of my family 
to be cared for. On my return I learned that the 
good people had both been guillotined, and find 
the poor boy, who before had been at least sound 
in body, utterly neglected, and living on the sym- 
pathy of the people who had taken him on the 


death of his foster-parents. I brought the child 
at once to this house, which I had hired for my- 
self under the name of Citizen Orage, and Toulan 
undertook to procure the help of a physician. It 
has now come in the person of the celebrated 
Doctor Naudin, and I beg you to have pity on 
the poor unfortunate child, and to receive him 
into the Hotel Dieu.” 

“ Let me first examine the child, in order to 
tell you what is the nature of his disorder.” 

And Doctor Naudin stooped down again to the 
boy, examined his eyes, his chest, his whole form, 
listened to his breathing, the action of his heart, 
and felt his pulse. The patient was entirely apa- 
thetic during all this, now and then merely whin- 
ing and groaning, when a movement of the doc- 
tor’s hand caused him pain. 

After the careful investigation had been ended, 
the doctor called the two gentlemen who had 
withdrawn to the window to the bed again. 

“ Marquis,” said he, “ this unfortunate child 
will never recover, and the least painful thing 
that could happen to him would be a speedy 
release from his miserable lot. Yet I do not 
believe that this will occur, but I consider it pos- 
sible that the boy will protract his unfortunate 
life a full year after his mind has entirely passed 
away, and nothing is left of him but his body. 
The boy, if you can regard such a poor creature 
as a human being, is suffering from an incurable 
form of scrofula, which will by and by consume 
his limbs, and convert him into an idiot ; he is 
now deaf ; he will be a mere stupid beast. If it 
were permitted to substitute the hand of science 
in place of the hand of God, I should say we 
ought to kill this poor creature that is no man 
and no beast, and has nothing more to expect of 
life than pain and torture, having no more con- 
sciousness of any thing than the dog has when he 
does not get a bone with which to quiet his 
hunger.” 

“ Poor, unhappy creature ! ” sighed the mar- 
quis. “ Now, I thank God that He released my 
sister from the pain of seeing her dear child in 
this condition.” 


“ Doctor Naudin,” said Toulan, solemnly, “ is- 


THE CONSULTATION. 


23S 


it your fixed conviction that this sick person will 
never recover ? ” 

“ My firm and undoubted conviction, which 
every physician who should see him would share 
with me.” 

“Are you of the opinion that this child has 
nothing in life to lose, and that death would be 
a gain to it ? ” 

“Yes; that is my belief. Death would be a 
release for the poor creature, for life is only a 
burden to it as well as to others.” 

“ Then,” cried Toulan, solemnly, “ I will give 
this poor sick child a higher and a fairer mission. 
I will make its life an advantage to others, and 
its death a hallowed sacrifice. Marquis of Jar- 
jayes, in the name of King Louis XYL, in the 
name of the exalted martyr to whom we have all 
sworn fidelity unto death, Queen Marie Antoinette, 
I demand and desire of you that you would in- 
trust to me this unhappy creature, and give his 
life into my hands. In the name of Marie An- 
toinette, I demand of the Marquis of Jarjayes 
that he deliver to me the son of his sister, that 
he do what every one of us is joyfully prepared 
to do if our holy cause demands it, that this boy 
may give his life for his king,' the imprisoned 
Louis XYII.” 

While Toulan was speaking with his earnest, 
solemn voice, Jarjayes knelt before the bed of 
the poor sobbing child, and, hiding his face in 
his hands, he prayed softly. 

Then, after a long pause, he rose and laid his 
hand on the feverish brow of the boy. “ You 
have addressed me,” he said, “in the name of 
Queen Marie Antoinette. You demand of me as 
the guardian of this poor creature that I give him 
Ko you, that he may give his life for his king. 
The sons and daughters of my house have always 
oeen ready and glad to devote their possessions, 
their happiness, their lives, to the service of their 
kings, and I speak simply in the spirit of my 
sister — who ascended the scaffold to seal her 
fidelity to the royal family with her death — I 
speak in the spirit of all my ancestors wmen I 
say, here is the last offspring of the Baroness of 
Tardif, here is the son of my sister ; take him 


and let him live or die for his king, Louis XYII., 
the prisoner at the Temple.” 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

THE CONSULTATION. 

During the night which followed the second 
visit of Doctor Naudin, Jeanne Marie Simon had 
a long and earnest conversation with her hus- 
band. The first words which the wife uttered, 
spoken in a whisper though they were, excited 
the cobbler so much that he threatened her with 
his clinched fist. She looked him calmly in 
the face, however, and said to him softly, “ And 
so you mean to stay perpetually in this hateful 
prison? You want to remain shut up here like 
a criminal, and get no more satisfaction out of 
life than what comes from tormenting this poor, 
half-witted boy to death ? ” 

Simon let his hand fall, and said, “If there 
were a means of escaping from this infernal 
prison, it would certainly be most welcome to 
me, for I am heartily tired of being a prisoner 
here, after having prayed for freedom so long, 
and worked for it so much. So, if there is a 
means — ” 

“ There is such a means,” interrupted his wife. 
“ Listen to me ! ” 

And Simon did listen, and the moving and 
eloquent words of his wife at length found a will- 
ing ear. Simon’s face gradually lightened up, 
and it seemed to him that he was now able to 
release his wife from an oppressive, burdensome 
load. 

“ If it succeeds,” he muttered — “ if it suc- 
ceeds, I shall be free from the mountainous 
weight which presses upon me day and night, 
and shall become a healthy man again.” 

“ And if it does not succeed,” whispered Jeanne 
Marie, “ the worst that can happen to us is what 
has happened to thousands before us. We shall 
merely feed the machine, and our heads will tum- 
ble into the basket, with this difference, that I 


234 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


shall not be able to make any mark in my stock- 
ing. I would rather die all at once on the guil- 
lotine and have it over, than be dying here day 
after day, and hour after hour, having nothing to 
expect from life but pain and ennui.” 

“ And I, too,” said Simon, decidedly. “ Rather 
die, than go on leading such a dog’s life. Let 
your doctor come to me to-morrow morning. I 
will talk with him ! ” 

Early the next day the doctor came in his 
long, black cloak, and with his peruke, to visit 
the sick Mistress Simon. The guards at the gate 
leading to the outer court quietly let him pass in, 
and did not notice that another face appeared in 
the peruke from that which had been seen the 
day before. The two official guards above, who 
had just completed their duties in the upper story, 
and met the doctor on the tower stairs, did not 
take any offence at his figure. The director of 
the Hotel Dieu was not personally known to them, 
and they were familiar with but little about him, 
excepting that he took the liberty of going about 
in his old-fashioned cloak, without giving offence 
to the authorities, and that he had permission 
from those authorities to come to the Temple for 
the purpose of visiting the wife of Simon. 

“ You will find two patients to-day up there,” 
said one of the ofiScials as he passed by. “ We 
empower you, doctor, to take the second one, 
little Capet, under your charge. The boy appears 
to be really sick, or else he is obstinate and mul- 
ish. He answers no questions, and he has taken 
no nourishment, Simon tells us, since yesterday 
noon. Examine into the case, doctor, and then 
tell us what your opinion is. We will wait for 
you down in the council-room. So make as 
much haste as possible.” 

They passed on, and the doctor did really make 
haste to ascend the staircase. At the open door 
which led to the apartment of the little Capet 
and his “ guardian,” he found Simon. 

“ Did you hear, citizen ? ” asked the doctor. 
“ The ofiicials are waiting for me below.” 

“Yes, I heard, doctor,” whispered Simon. 
“ We have-not much time. Come ! ” 

He motioned to the physician to pass along the 


corridor and to enter the room, while he bolted 
and locked the outer door. As the doctor en- 
tered, Mistress Simon lay upon her bed and looked 
at the new-comer with curious, glowing eyes. 

“Who are you?” she asked, rising quickly 
from her bed. “You are not Doctor Naudin 
whom I expected, and I do not know you ! ” 

Meantime the doctor walked in silence to her 
bed, and stooped over Jeanne Marie, who sank 
back upon the pillow. 

“ I am the one who is to help you escape from 
the Temple,” he whispered. “ Doctor Naudin 
has sent me, to work in union with him and you 
in effecting your release and that of the unfortu- 
nate Capet.” 

“ Husband,” cried Jeanne Marie to the cobbler, 
who was just coming in, “ this is the man who is 
going to deliver us from this hell ! ” 

“ That is to say,” said the doctor, with a firm, 
penetrating voice, “ I will free you if you will 
help me free the dauphin.” 

“ Speak softly, for God’s sake, speak softly,” 
said Simon anxiously. “ If any one should hear 
you, we are all lost ! We wdll do every thing 
that you demand of us, provided that we can in 
that w'ay escape from this miserable, good-for- 
nothing place. The air here is like poison, and 
to have to stay here is like being buried alive.” 

“ And then the dreams, the frightful dreams,” 
muttered Jeanne Marie, with a shudder. “ I can- 
not sleep any more in this dreadful prison, for 
that pale, fearful woman, with great, fixed eyes, 
goes walking about through the Temple every 
night, and listens at the doors to see whether her 
children are alive yet, and whether we are not 
killing them. Lately, she has not only lis^tened 
at the doors, but she has come into my room, and 
passed my bed, and gone into the chamber of 
little^jCapet. Simon was asleep, and did not see 
her. I sprang up, however, and stole softly to 
the door ; for I thought somebody had crept in 
here in disguise, possibly Citizen Toulan, who had 
already twice made the attempt to release the 
Austrian and her children, and whom I then de- 
nounced at headquarters. There I saw — although 
it was entirely dark in the hall — there I saw little 


THE CONSULTATION. 


235 


Capet lying asleep on his mattress, his hands 
folded over his breast, and with an expression of 
countenance more happy, altogether more happy, 
than it ever is when he is awake. Near the mat- 
tress kneeled the figure in white, and it seemed as 
if a radiance streamed out from it that filled the 
whole room. Its face was pale and wdiite, just 
like a lily, and it seemed as if the fragrance of a 
lily was in the apartment. Her two arms were 
raised, as if she would utter a benediction over 
her sleeping boy ; around her half-opened lips 
played a sweet smile, and her great eyes, which 
had the aspect of stars, looked up toward heaven. 
But while I was there in a maze, and watched the 
figure in a transport of delight, there occurred, all 
at once, something wonderful, something dread- 
ful. The figure rose from its knees, dropped its 
arms, turned itself around, and advanced straight 
toward me. The eyes, which had been turned so 
purely heavenward before, were directed to me' 
with a look which pierced my breast like the 
thrust of a knife. I recognized that look — that 
sad, reproachful glance. It was the same that 
Marie Antoinette gave me, when she stood on 
the scaffold. I was sitting in the front row of the 
knitters, and I was just going to make the double 
stitch for her in my stocking, when that look met 
me ; those great, sad eyes were turned toward me, 
and I felt that she had recognized me, and her 
eyes bored into my breast, and followed me even 
after the axe had taken off her head. The eyes 
did not fall into the basket, they were not buried, 
but they remain in my breast ; they have been 
piercing me ever since, and burning me like glow- 
ing coals. But that night I saw them again, as 
in life — those dreadful eyes ; and as the figure ad- 
vanced toward me, it raised its hand and threat- 
ened me, and its eyes spoke to me, and it seemed 
as if a curse of God were going through my brain, 
for those eyes said to me — ‘ Murder ! ’ — spoke it 
so loudly, so horribly, that it appeared as if my 
nead would burst, and I could not cry, and could 
not move, and had to look at it, till, at last, I be- 
came unconscious.” 

“ There, see there, doctor,” cried Simon, in 
alarm, as his wife fell back upon the pillow with 


a loud cry, and quivered in all her limbs ; “ now 
she has convulsions again, and then she will be, 
for a day or two, out of her mind, and will talk 
strangely about the pale woman with dreadful 
eyes ; and when she goes on so, she makes even 
me sad, and anxious, and timid, and I grow afraid 
of the white ghost that she says is always with 
us. Ah ! doctor, help us ! See, now, how the 
poor woman suffers and twists ! ” 

The doctor drew a bottle from his breast- 
pocket, and rubbed a few drops upon the temples 
of the sick woman. 

“ Those are probably the famous soothing-drops 
of Doctor Naudin ? ” asked Simon, in astonish- 
ment, when he saw how quiet his wife became, 
and that her spasms and groans ceased. 

“ Yes,” answered the doctor, “ and the eminent 
physician sends them as a present to your wife. 
“ They are very costly, and rich people have to 
pay a louis-d’or for every drop. But Doctor Nau- 
din gives them to you, for he wishes Jeanne Marie 
long to enjoy good health. How is it with you 
now ? ” 

“ I feel well, completely well,” she said, as the 
doctor rubbed some drops a second time on her 
temple. “ I feel easier than I have felt for a long 
time.” 

“ Give me your hand,” said the doctor. “ Rise 
up, for you are well. Let us go into the chamber 
of the poor boy, for I have to speak with you 
there.” 

He walked toward the chamber-door, leading 
Jeanne Marie by the hand, while Simon followed 
them. Softly and silently they entered the dark 
room, and went to the mattress on which the 
child lay. 

The boy stared at them with great, wide-opened 
eyes, but they were without expression and life, 
and only the breath, as it came slowly and heavi- 
ly from the half-opened lips, showed that there 
was vitality still in this poor, little, shrunken form. 

The doctor kneeled down beside the bed, and, 
bending over it, pressed a long, fervent kiss on 
the delicate, hot hand of the child. But Charles 
Louis remained motionless ; he merely slowly 
dropped his lips and closed his eyes. 


236 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“You see, doctor, he neither hears nor sees,” 
said Simon, in a low, growling voice. “ He cares 
for nothing, and does not know any thing about 
what is going on around him. It is a week since 
he spoke a word.” 

“Not since the day when you wanted to com- 
pel the child to sing the song that makes sport 
of his mother.” 

“ He did not sing it ? ” asked the doctor, with a 
tremulous voice. 

“ He is a mulish little toad,” cried Simon, an- 
grily. “ I begged him at first, then I threatened, 
and when prayers and threats were of no use I 
punished him, as a naughty boy deserves when* he 
will not do what his foster-father bids him do. 
But even blows did not bring him to it ; the ob- 
stinate youngster would not sing the merry song 
with me, and since then he has not spoken a 
word.* He seems as if he had grown deaf and 
dumb as a punishment for not obeying his good 
foster-father.” 

“ He is neither deaf nor dumb,” said the doctor, 
solemnly. “ He is simply a good son, who would 
not sing the song which made sport of his noble 
and unfortunate mother. See whether I am not 
right ; see these tears which run from his closed 
eyes. He has heard us, he has understood us, and 
he answers us with his tears ! Oh, sire,” he con- 
tinued passionately, “ by the sacred remembrance 
of your father and your mother, I swear devotion 
to you until death ; I swear that I have come to 
set you free, to die for you. Look up, my king 
and my darling one ! I intrust to you and to both 
these witnesses my whole secret ; I let the mask 
fall to show myself to you in my true form, that 
you may confide in me, and know that the most 
devoted of your servants is kneeling before you, 
and that he dedicates his life to you. Open your 
eyes, Louis of France, and see whether you know 
me ! ” 

He sprang up, threw off the great peruke, and 
the long black cloak, and stood before them in 
the uniform of an official guard. 


♦ Historical. — See Beauchesne’s “Histoire de Louis 
XYII.,” voL u. 


“ Thunder and guns ! ” cried Simon, with a loud 
laugh, “ it is — ” 

“ Hush ! ” interrupted the other — “ hush ! He 
alone shall declare who I am ! Oh, look at me, 
my king; convince these unbelieving ones here 
that your mind is clear and strong, and that you 
are conscious of what is going on around you. 
Look at me, and if you know me, speak my 
name ! ” 

And with folded hands, in unspeakable emotion, 
he leaned over the bed of the child, that still lay 
with closed eyes. 

“ I knew that he could hear nothing, and that 
he was deaf,” growled Simon, while his wife folded 
her trembling hands, and with tearful eyes whis- 
pered a prayer. 

A deep silence ensued, and with anxious ex- 
pectation each looked at the boy. At length he 
slowly raised the heavy, reddened eyelids, and 
looked with a timid, anxious glance around him- 
self. Then his gaze fixed itself upon the elo- 
quent, speaking face of the man whose tears were 
falling like warm dew-drops upon his pale, sunken 
features. 

A quiver passed over the countenance of the 
boy, a beam of joy lighted up his eyes, and 
something like a smile played around his trem- 
bling lips. 

“ Do you know me ? Do you know my 
name ? ” 

The child raised his hand in salutation, and 
said, in a clear, distinct voice : “ Toulan ! Fi- 
dMe!” 

Toulan fell on his knees again and covered the 
little thin hand of the boy with his tears and his 
kisses. 

“ Yes, Fid Me,” he sobbed. “ That is the title 
of honor which your royal mother gave me— that 
is the name that she wrote on the bit of paper 
which she put into the gold smelling-bottle that 
she gave me. That little bottle, which a queen 
once carried, is my most precious possession, and 
yet I would part with that if I could save the life 
of her son, happy if I could but retain the hal- 
lowed paper on which the queen’s hand wrote the 
word ‘Fidele.’ Yes, you poor, pitiable son of 


THE CONSULTATION. 


237 


kings, I am Fidele, I am Toulan, at whom you 
have so often laughed when he played with you 
in your prison.” 

A flash like the sunlight passed over the face 
of the child, and a smile illumined his features. 

“ She used to laugh, too,” he whispered — “ she, 
too, my mamma queen.” 

“ Yes, she too laughed at our jests,” said Tou- 
lan, with a voice choked with tears ; “ and, be- 
lieve me, she looks down from heaven upon us 
and smiles her blessing, for she knows that Tou- 
lan has come to free her dear son, and to deliver 
him from the executioner’s hands. Tell me now, 
king and my dearly-loved lord, will you trust 
me, will you give to your most devoted servant 
and subject the privilege of releasing you ? Do 
you consent to accept freedom at the hands of 
your Fidele ? ” 

The child threw a timid, anxious glance at Simon 
and his wife, and then, with a shudder, turned 
his head to one side. 

“ You make no answer, sire,” said Toulan, im- 
ploringly. “ Oh ! speak my king, may I set you 
free ? ” 

The boy spoke a few words in reply, but so 
softly that Toulan could not understand him. He 
stooped down nearer to him, and put his ear 
close to the lips of the child. He then could hear 
the words, inaudible to all but him, “ He will dis- 
close you ; take care, Toulan. But do not say 
any thing, else he will beat me to death ! ” 

Toulan made no reply; he only impressed a 

long, tender kiss upon the trembling hand of the 

child. 

\ 

“ Did he speak ? ” asked Simon. “ Did you 
understand, citizen, what he said ? ” 

“Yes, I understood him,” answered Toulan. 
“ He consents ; he allows me to make every at- 
tempt to free him, and is prepared to do every 
thing that we ask of him. And now I ask you 
too, are you prepared to help me release the 
prince ? ” 

“You know already, Toulan,” said Simon, 
quickly, “ that we are prepared for every thing, 
provided that our conditions are fulfilled. Give 
me a tolerable position outside of the Temple; 


give me a good bit of money, so that I may live 
free from care, and if the new place should not 
suit me, that I could go into the country, and not 
have to work at all ; give my Jeanne Marie her 
health and cheerfulness again, and I will help 
you set young Capet free.” 

“Through my assistance, and that of Doctor 
Naudin, you shall have a good place outside of 
the Temple,” answered Toulan, eagerly. “ Be- 
sides this, at the moment when you deliver the 
prince into my hands, outside of this prison, I 
will pay you in ready money the sum of twenty 
thousand francs ; and as for the third condition, 
that about restoring her health to Jeanne Marie, 
I am sure that I can fulfil this condition too. Do 
you not know, Simon, what your wife is suffering 
from ? Do you not know what her sickness is ? ” 

“ No, truly not. I am no doctor. How should 
I know what her sickness is ? ” 

“ Then I will tell you. Citizen Simon. Your 
wife is suffering from the worst of all complaints, 
a bad conscience ! Yes, it is a bad conscience 
that robs her of her sleep and rest; it is that 
which makes her see the white, pale form of the 
martyred queen in the night, and read the word 
‘ murderer ’ in her eyes.” 

“ He is right ! — oh, he is right ! ” groaned 
Jeanne Marie, falling on her knees. “ I am to 
blame for her death, for I denounced Toulan to 
the authorities just when he was on the point of 
saving her. I tortured her ! — oh, cruelly tortureu 
her, and I laughed when she ascended the scaf- 
fold, and I laughed too, even when she gave me 
that dreadful look. But I have bitterly regretted 
it since, and now she gnaws at me like a scorpion. 
I wanted to drive her away from me at first, and 
therefore I was cruel to her son, for I wanted to 
put an end to the fearful remorse that was tor- 
menting me. But it grew even more powerful 
within me. The more I beat the boy, the more 
his tears moved me, and often I thought I should 
die when I heard him cry and moan. Yes, yes, 
it is a bad conscience that has made me sick and 
miserable ! But I will do right after this. I re- 
pent — oh, I repent ! Here I lay my hand on the 
heart of this child and swear to his murdered 


238 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


mother I will do right again ! I swear that I 
will free her son ! I swear by all that is sacred 
in heaven and on earth that I will die myself, un- 
less we succeed in freeing this child ! I swear to 
you, Marie Antoinette, that I will free him. But 
will you forgive me even then ? Will you have 
rest in your poor grave, and not come to my 
bedside and condemn me and accuse me with 
your sad, dreadful eyes 

“Free her son, Jeanne Marie,” said Toulan, 
solemnly, “ and his mother will forgive you, and 
her hallowed shade will no longer disturb your 
Sleep, for you will then have restored to her the 
peace of the grave ! But you. Citizen Simon, will 
you too not swear that you will faithfully assist 
in releasing the royal prince ? Do you not know 
that conscience is awake in your heart too, 
and compels you to have compassion on the poor 
boy ? ” 

“ I know it, yes, I know it,” muttered Simon, 
confused. “ His gentle eyes and his sad bearing 
have made me as weak and as soft as an old wo- 
man. It is high time that I should be rid of the 
youngster, else it will be with me just as it is with 
my wife, and I shall have convulsions and see 
ghosts with daggers in their eyes. And so, in 
order to remain a strong man and have a good 
conscience and a brave heart, I must be rid of 
the boy, and must know that I have done him 
some service, and have been his deliverer. And 
so I swear by the sacred republic, and by our 
hallowed freedom, that I will help you and do 
all that in me lies to release little Capet and get 
him away from here. I hope you will be satisfied 
with my oath, Toulan, for there is nothing for me 
more sacred than the republic and freedom.” 

“I am satisfied, Simon, and I trust you. And 
now let us talk it all over and consider it, my dear 
allies. The whole plan of the escape is formed in 
my head, all the preparations are made, and if 
you will faithfully follow all that I bid you, in one 
week’s time you will be free and happy.” 

“ So soon as a week ! ” cried Simon, delight- 
edly. 

“Yes, in a week, for it happens fortunately 
that one of the officials of the Public Safety ser- 


vice is dangerously sick and has been carried to 
the Hotel Dieu. Doctor Naudin says that he can 
live but three days longer, and then the post will 
be vacant. We must be active, therefore, and 
take measures for you to gain the place. Now 
listen to me, and mark my words.” 

They had a long conversation by the bedside of 
the little prince, and they saw that he perfectly 
understood the whole plan which Toulan unfolded 
in eloquent words, for his looks took on a great 
deal of expression ; he fixed his eyes constantly 
on Toulan, and a smile played about his lips. 

Simon and Simon’s wife were also perfectly sat- 
isfied with Toulan’s communication, and repeated 
their readiness to do every thing to further the 
release of the prince, if they in return could only 
be removed from the Temple. 

“ I will at once take the steps necessary to the 
success of my plan,” said Toulan, taking his leave 
with a friendly nod, and kissing the boy’s hand 
respectfully. 

“ FidMe,” whispered Louis, “ FidMe, do you be- 
lieve that I shall be saved ? ” 

“ I am sure of it, uiy dear prince. The grace 
of God and the blessing of your exalted parents 
will be our helpers in bringing this good work 
to a completion. Farewell, and preserve as long 
as you remain here the same mood that I found 
you in. Show little interest in what goes on, and 
appear numb and stupid. I shall not come again, 
for after this I must work for you outside of the 
prison. But Doctor Naudin will come every day 
to see you, and on the day of your flight I shall 
be by your side. Till then, God bless you, my 
dear prince ! ” 

Toulan left the prison of the little Capet and 
repaired at once to the Hotel Dieu, where he had 
a long conversation with Doctor Naudin. At the 
end of it, the director of the hospital entered his car- 
riage and drove to the city hall, in whose largest 
chamber a committee of the Public Safety officials 
were holding a public meeting. With earnest 
and urgent words the revered and universally val- 
ued physician gave the report about the visits 
which he had made at the Temple for some days 
at the command of the authorities, and about the 


THE CONSULTATION. 


239 


condition of alfairs there. Petion the elder, the 
presiding officer of the committee, listened to the 
report with a grave repose, and the picture of the 
low health of the “ little Capet,” while he paid the 
most marked attention to that part of the report 
which concerned the Simons. 

“ Citizen Simon has deserved much oi the 
country, and he is one of the most faithful sup- 
porters of the one and indivisible republic,” said 
Petion, when Doctor Naudin ended his report. 
“ The republic must, like a grateful mother, show 
gratitude to her loyal sons, and care for them ten- 
derly. So tell us. Citizen Naudin, what must be 
done in order to restore health to Citizen Simon 
and his wife.” 

“ They are both sick from the same cause, and, 
therefore, they both require the same remedy. 
That remedy is, a change of air and a change of 
location. Let Simon have another post, where he 
shall be allowed to exercise freely out of doors, 
and where he shall not be compelled to breathe 
only the confined air of a cell ; and let his wife 
not be forced to listen to the whining and the 
groaning of the little sick Capet. In one word, 
give to them both liberty to move around, and the 
free air, and they will, without any doubt, and 
within a short time, regain their health.” 

“ It is tiue,” said Petion, “ the poor people lead 
a sad life in the Temple, and are compelled to 
breathe the air that the last scions of tyranny 
have contaminated with their poisonous breaths. 
We owe it to them to release them from this bad 
atmosphere, in consideration of their faithful and 
zealous service to the country. Citizen Simon has 
always taken pains to repair the great neglect in 
Capet’s education, and to make the worthless boy 
prove some day a worthy son of the republic.” 

“ But even if Simon should remain in the Tem- 
ple, he would not be able to go on much longer 
with the education of the boy,” said the hospital 
director, with a shrug. 

“What do you mean by that, citizen doctor ? ” 
asked Petion, with a pleasant lighting up of his 
eyes. 

“ I mean that the boy has not a long time to 
live, for he is suffering at once from consumption 


and softening of the brain, and the latter disease 
will soon reduce him to an idiot, and render him 
incapable of receiving instruction.” 

“You are convinced that the son of the tyrants 
will not recover?” asked Petion, with a strained, 
eager glance. 

“ My careful examination of his case has con- 
vinced me that he has but a short time to live, 
and that he will spend the larger part of this time 
in an idiotic state. On this account Simon ought 
to be removed from the Temple, in order that his 
enemies may not be able to circulate a report 
about this zealous and worthy servant of the re- 
public, that he is guilty of the death of little Ca- 
pet — that Simon’s method of bringing him up 
killed him. And besides, in order that the same 
charge should not be laid to the one and great 
republic, and it be accused of cruelty to a poor 
sick child, kindly attentions should be bestowed 
on him.” 

Petion’s countenance clouded, and his eyes 
rested on the physician with a sinister, searching 
expression. 

“ You have a great deal of sensibility, doctor, 
and you appear to forget that the boy is a crimi- 
nal by birth, and that the republic can have no 
special sympathy with him.” 

“For me,” answered Naudin, with simplicity, 
“ every sick person at whose bed I am called to 
stand, is a poor, pitiable human being, and I 
never stop to think whether he is a criminal or 
not, but merely that he is a sufferer, and then I 
endeavor to discover the means to assist him. 
The hallowed and indivisible repubhc, however, 
is an altogether too magnanimous and exalted 
mother of all her children not to have pity on 
those w’ho are reduced to idiocy, and in sore sick- 
ness. The republic is like the sun, which pours 
its beams even into the dungeon of the criminal, 
and shines upon the just and unjust alike.” 

“And what do you desire that the republic 
should do for the offspring of tyrants ? ” asked 
Petion, peevishly. 

“ I desire not much,’' answered Naudin, with a 
smile. “ Let me be permitted to visit the sick 
child from time to time, and in his hopeless con- 


240 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


dition to procure him a little relief from his suf- 
ferings at least, and let him be treated like the 
child he is. Let a little diversion be allowed him. 
If it is not possible or practicable for him to play 
with children of his age, let him at least have 
some playthings for his amusement.” 

“ Do you demand in earnest that the republic 
should condescend to provide playthings for her 
imprisoned criminals ? ” asked Fetion, with a 
scornful laugh. 

“You have commanded me to visit the sick 
boy in the Temple, to examine his condition, and 
to prescribe the necessary remedies for his recov- 
ery. I can offer no hope of recovery to the pa- 
tient, but I can afford him some relief from his 
sufferings. Some of my medicines are called play- 
things I It lies with you to decide whether the 
republic will refuse these medicines to the sick 
one.” 

“ And you say that the little Capet is incura- 
ble ? ” asked Fetion, eagerly 

“ Incurable, citizen representative.” 

“Well, then,” said Fetion, with a cold smile, 
“ the republic can afford to provide the last of the 
Capets with toys. They have for. centuries toyed 
fearlessly with the happiness of the people, and 
the last thing which the people of France give 
back to the tyrants is some toy with which they 
may amuse themselves on the way to eternity. 
Citizen doctor, your demands shall be complied 
with. The first place which shall become vacant 
shall be given to Citizen Simon, that he may be 
released from prison and enjoy his freedom. The 
little Capet will be provided with playthings, and, 
besides, you are empowered to give him all need- 
ful remedies for his relief. It is your duty to care 
for the sick child until its death.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE HOBBY-HORSE. 

In accordance with the instructions of Fetion, 
playthings were procured and carried into the 


gloomy chamber of the prince on the very next 
day, and set by the side of the sick boy. But 
Mistress Simon labored in vain trying to amuse 
the little Louis with them. The men danced, the 
wooden cocks crowed, the dogs barked, and to all 
these sounds the child paid no heed ; it did not 
once open its eyes, nor care in the least for the 
many-colored things which the officials had 
brought him. 

“We must try something else,” said the com- 
passionate officer. “ Do you know any plaything 
which would be likely to please little Louis 
Capet ? ” 

“ Give him a riding-horse,” cried Simon, with 
a coarse laugh. “ I am convinced if the obstinate 
youngster should hear that there was a riding- 
horse outside, and that he might ride through 
Paris, he would be well on the spot and get up. 
It is pure deceit, his lying there so pale and with- 
out interest in any thing about him.” 

“You are very cruel, citizen,” muttered the 
official, with a compassionate glance at the child. 

“ Cruel ? Yes, I am cruel ! ” said Simon, grim- 
ly. “But it is the cursed prison air that has 
made me so. If I stay here a week longer, 
Jeanne Marie will die, and I shall become crazy. 
The director of the hospital told us this, and you 
know, citizen, that he is the most clever doctor 
in all France. See if you would not be cruel if 
you had such an idea as that in your head ! ” 

“ Well, citizen, you have at least the satisfac 
tion of knowing that it will not last long,” an- 
swered the officer, consolingly. “ The first vacancy 
is to be given to you.” 

“Well, I hope it will come soon, then,” said 
Simon, with a sigh. “ I will take a vow to you. 
If, in a week, I shall be released from this place, 
and get a good situation, I will give little Capet 
a horse to remember me by. That is, not a horse 
on which he might ride out of prison, but a 
wooden one, on which he can ride in prison. 
Say, little Capet,” called Simon, stooping over 
the bed of the child, “ would you not like to have 
a nice wooden horse to play with ? ” ^ 

Over the pale lips of the boy played the faint 
tint of a smile, and he opened his eyes. “ Yes,” 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


241 


he said, softly — “yes; I should like to have a 
wooden horse, and I should have a good time 
with it.” 

“Come, citizen,” said Simon, solemnly, “I 
take you to witness my vow. If I receive another 
place, I give a hobby-horse to little Capet. You 
grant me the privilege, citizen ? ” 

“ I allow you. Citizen Simon, and I will report 
the matter to the Public Welfare Committee, that 
it shall surprise no one by and by, and I am sure 
no one will gainsay you in your praiseworthy 
offer. For it certainly is praiseworthy to prepare 
a pleasure for a sick child ; and the great repub- 
lic, which is the gracious mother of all French- 
men, will pity the poor child, too. I wish you 
success, citizen, in the fulfilment of all your 
hopes, and trust that you will speedily be released 
from your trying imprisonment.” 

And, in fact, this release did not have to be 
waited for long. A few days brought the accom- 
plishment of Doctor Naudin’s prophecy, and the 
official guard, who was then sick at the Hotel 
Dieu, died. The director of the hospital hastened 
to inform the authorities of this event, and on 
the same day Simon was appointed his successor. 
The same official who had brought the sick prince 
the playthings, came again to inform Simon of 
his release, and was delighted at the stormy out- 
break of rapturous joy with which the tidings 
were received. 

“We will be off directly,” cried Simon. “ Our 
things have all been packed for three days, and 
every thing is ready.” 

“ But you must wait patiently till to-morrow, 
my friends,” said the official, with a smile. 
“Your successor cannot enter upon his duties 
here in the Temple before to-morrow morning at 
ten o’clock, and till then you must be content to 
wait quietly.” 

“ That is sad,” sighed Simon. “ The time be- 
tween now and ten o’clock to-morrow morning, 
will lie like lead upon my shoulders. I assure 
you, citizen, the Temple could get along without 
me for one night. The two Misses Capet above- 
stairs are locked up, and as for the little Capet 

down here, it is not necessary to lock him up, for 
16 


he will not run away, but lie quietly here upon 
his mattress.” 

“ So the child is really very sick ? ” asked the 
officer, with feeling. 

“ Not exactly very sick,” answered Simon, in- 
differently ; “ but Doctor Naudin, who visits him 
every day, thinks that the youngster might not 
be all right in the head, and he has ordered, on 
this account, that his long thick hair should be 
cut off, that his head might be a little cooler. So 
Jeanne Marie is going to cut it off, and that will 
probably be the last service that she will have to 
do for him. We are going to clear out of this — 
we are going to clear out of this ! ” 

“ And have you really nothing more to do for 
the little Capet, than merely to cut off his hair ? ” 
asked the officer with a fixed, searching look. 

“No,” answered Simon, with a laugh; “noth- 
ing but that. Oh ! yes, there is something else. 
I did not think of that. My vow to you ! I for- 
got that. I swore that, if I were to get away 
from here, I would give little Capet a hobby- 
horse.” 

“ I am glad. Citizen Simon, that you remember 
your promise,” said the officer, gravely. “I 
must tell you that the Public Welfare Committee, 
to which I communicated your intention, was 
very curious to know whether Citizen Simon 
would remember to carry it into effect. It is 
on this account that I was instructed to inform 
you of your transfer, and to report to them 
whether you intended to keep your promise. 
Your superiors will rejoice to learn that you are 
a man of honor, with whom it is a sacred duty 
to keep his word ; and who, in prosperous days, 
does not forget to do what he promised to do in 
less propitious times. So, go and buy for little 
Capet the promised hobby-horse, and I will in- 
form the Welfare Committee that it was not 
necessary for me to remind you of your vow, and 
that you are not only a good citizen, but a good 
man as well. Go and buy the plaything, and 
mak« your arrangements to leave the Temple to- 
morrow morning at ten o’clock, and to enter 
upon your new duties as collector of customs at 
Porte Macon.” 


242 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ The great bell of Notre Dame will not have 
growled out its ten strokes to-morrow morning, 
before Jeanne Marie and I, with our goods, will 
have left the place,” replied Simon, with a laugh. 
“ And now I will run and fulfil my promise.” 
He clapped his red-flannel cap upon his black, 
thick hair, and left the Temple with a hurried 
step. As the porter opened the door of the court 
which led to the street, for the worthy citizen and 
“man of honor,” Simon stopped a moment to chat, 
telling him of his new situation,- and of the vow 
which he was about to discharge. 

“ Do not wonder, therefore, citizen,” he said, 
“if you see me come back, by-and-by, with a 
horse — with this distinction, that it will not be 
the horse that carries me, but that it will be I 
that will carry the horse. I was such a fool as 
to promise little Capet a horse, and I must keep 
my word, particularly as the Committee of Safety 
allows it.” 

“ Well, if that is so,” said the porter, with 
mock gravity, “ I shall let you in, even if you do 
not make your appearance until night. With the 
permission of the Safety Committee, every thing ; 
without it, nothing — ^for I want to keep my head a 
little longer on my shoulders.” 

“ And I do not grudge you the privilege,” said 
Simon, with a broad grin. “We know very little 
about what we have here, but much less about 
the place where the dear machine takes us. But, 
if you like, you can ask Roger, the official guard, 
whether I have permission to bring the wooden 
Iiorse into the Temple. He is inside, and will 
probably be there when I come back.” 

rHe nodded to the porter, and went out into the 
sti^et. As the door closed behind him, Simon 
stopped a moment, and cast a quick glance up 
and down the street. Above, at the corner of the 
little oross-street, stood quietly a young commis- 
sioner in his blouse, apparently waiting for some 
one to employ him. Simon crossed the street and 
went up to him. 

“ Wefi,” asked the latter aloud, “have you any 
thing for me to do, citizen?” 

“.Yes,” answered Simon, softly and quickly. 
“ Yes, Toulan, I am all ready for you. To-mor- 


row morning, at ten o’clock, I leave the Terr 
pie.” 

“I know it,” whispered Toulan. “But speak 
loudly. There stands a man who seems to be 
watching us.” 

“ Come,” cried Simon, loudly. “ I want you to 
accompany me to a store where they sell play- 
things, and afterward you must help carry back 
what I buy, for it will be too large and too heavy 
for me alone.” 

Toulan followed him without replying, and the 
two went quietly and with an air of indifference 
through the busy crowd of men. At the corner 
of a neighboring street the commissioner came 
in gentle contact with another, who was standing 
on the curbstone, and was looking earnestly down 
the street. 

“ Beg pardon, citizen,” said Toulan, loudly, and 
then added, softly, “to-morrow morning, at ten 
o’clock. The washerwomen will take charge of 
the dirty linen at the door. At exactly ten the 
wagons and the boys must start. The hobby- 
horse will be filled.” 

“Yes, it shall be filled,” and, with an indiffer- 
ent air, he passed by the two, and walked down 
the Helder street. The farther he went the more 
rapid became his steps, and when he at last en- 
tered a narrow, solitary alley, where he might 
hope to be less observed, his quick walk became 
a run, which he continued till he reached the Rue 
Yivienne. He then moderated his pace, and went 
quietly into a toy-shop, wffiose attractive windows 
and open door were directed to the street. The 
clerk, who stood behind the counter, asked, with 
a quiet air, what he desired. 

“First, allow me to sit down, citizen,” answered 
the commissioner, as he sank upon the rush-chair 
which stood before the counter. “There, and 
now, if you want to do me a service, just give me 
a glass of water."” 

“ Halloo, John,” cried the clerk to the errand-' 
boy, who was standing in the back part of the 
store. “ Bring a glass of water from the well ! 
Hasten ! ” 

The boy took a glass and sprang out of the 
door into the street. 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


243 


“ In a quarter of an hour they will be here,” 
said the commissioner, quickly. “ Inform the 
marquis, if you please.” 

“ The cabinet-maker, Lamber, you mean,” whis- 
pered the clerk. “ He is not as far away as you ; 
he lives directly opposite, and he has been stand- 
ing all day at the house-door waiting for the 
' sign.” 

“ Then give it to him, dear baron,” said the 
' commissioner ; and as the boy came in just then 
with tlie water, he hastily seized the glass, and 
took a swallow so immense as to perfectly satisfy 
the boy, who was looking at him. 

The clerk had, in the mean time, gone to the 
shop-door, and looking across at the opposite 
"" house, he drew a blue handkerchief, with a red 
border, from his pocket, and slowly raised it to 
his face. 

> The man in the blouse, standing at the door of 
f ° 

i the low house across the street, nodded slightly, 

J and stepped back out of sight. 

Well,” cried the commissioner, “now that I 
have taken breath, and have had a good drink, I 
will tell you why I have run so. I have directed 
a citizen to you who wants to buy some play- 
things, and something very fine, I suppose, as he 
brings a commissioner along with him to carry 
^ the things home. Now I want to know what pej 
cent, of the profit you get from him you are will- 
ing to give me, for you cannot expect, citizen, 
that I should give my recommendation gratis.” 

“ I am not the owner of the store,” replied the 
' clerk, with a shrug. “ I have been here only a 
week, and manage the business merely while the 
owner is absent for a short time on a necessary 
journey. So I can give no fees. But ask the 
boy w^hether in such cases Mr. Duval has paid 
money. He has been here longer than I.” 

“ Mr. Duval has paid every commissioner, who 
I has brought him such news, two centums on the 
■ franc,” said the boy, with an important air. 

B “Well, then, I will give you two centums on 
I the franc, provided that th*e citizen buys more 
fli than a franc’s worth,” 

*1 “ Aha ! there comes the man,” cried the com- 

a missioner, pointing at Simon, who just then en- 


tered the store with Toulan. “Well, citizen, 
now make a very handsome purchase, for the 
more you buy, the better I shall like it,” 

“ Yes, I believe you,” replied Simon, laughing : 
“ that is the way in all stores. I want something 
nice ; I want to buy a hobby-horse. But mind 
you, citizen, show me one of your best ones, a 
real blood-horse, for I tell you that he who is to 
ride it is of real blood himself.” 

“We happen unfortunately to have a limited 
supply of the article,” said the clerk, with a 
shrug. “ They do not come exactly in our line. 
But there has been so much demand for hobby- 
horses of late that we have ordered some, and if 
you will wait a few days, citizen — ” 

“ A few days ! ” interrupted Simon, augrily. 
“Not a few hours, not a few minutes will I wait. 
If you have no hobby horses, tell me, and I will 
go elsewhere to make my purchases.” 

He turned to go, but the clerk held him back. 
“Wait only a minute,” he said. “ I should not 
like to lose your custom, and I think it possible 
that I can procure you a fine horse. The cabinet- 
maker, who makes our horses, lives just opposite, 
and he has promised to deliver them to-morrow. 
The boy shall go over and see if they are not 
ready.” 

“We would rather go over /with him, citizen. 
If we find what is wanted, we shall need to go no 
farther.” 

“ It is true, that will be the best course,” said 
Simon. “ Come, commissioner.” 

“ I will go along to have the business all right- 
ly done,” said the clerk. “Here, John, take my 
place behind the counter while I am gone.” 

Simon had already crossed the street by the 
side of Toulan. The clerk followed with the sec- 
ond commissioner. 

“ Why have you not got rid of the boy, Count 
St. Prix ? ” asked the latter. 

“ It was impossible. Count Frott4,” answered 
the former in a whisper. “Duval is a very 
nervous man, and he supposed that it would ex- 
cite suspicion if the boy, who is well known in the 
neighborhood, should disappear at just the time 
when he should be away. He is right, perhaps, and 


244 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


at any rate the thing is unavoidable. The sly chore- 
boy has noticed nothing I hope, and we shall 
reach our goal without any hinderance. You are 
going to London to-morrow morning ? ” 

“ Yes, count. And you ? what is your direc- 
tion ? ” 

“To Coblentz, to the royal princes,” replied 
Count St. Prix. “ Only I suspect that we shall 
not both of us reach the end of our journeys.” 

“ At any rate not with the children that we shall 
take with us,” whispered the other, as they en- 
tered the house of the cabinet-maker. 

They found Simon and Toulan in the large 
workshop busily engaged in bargaining with the 
cabinet-maker, who had shown them six tolerably 
large hobby-horses, and was descanting on their 
beauties. 

“ It seems to me they all look very much 
alike,” said Simon. “ Tell me, commissioner, 
which of these race-horses pleases you best.” 

“ This with the red flanks,” said Toulan, laying 
his hand upon the largest one. 

“ It is an immense creature,” said Simon, with 
a laugh. “ Still, the red flanks are pretty, and if 
we can agree about the price I will buy the ani- 
mal.” 

They did agree, and after Simon had gravely 
paid the twenty francs, he and Toulan took the 
horse on their shoulders and marched down the 
street. 

“ Do all those people know about our secret ? ” 
asked Simon, as they strode forward. 

“ No, only the cabinet-maker knows about it, 
and he will leave Paris to-morrow and carry the 
prince to a place of safety.” 

“ For God’s sake, do not speak so loudly !” 
whispered Simon, casting an anxious look around. 
“ But why do you yourself not go away with the 
boy and leave Paris, where you are constantly in 
danger ? ” 

“ I cannot,” answered Toulan, solemnly. 

“ Cannot ! what forbids you ? ” 

“The vow that I gave to Marie Antoinette, to 
rescue her children from the Temple or to die.” 

“Well, but to-morrow you hope to fulfil your 
vow, and then you can go.” 


“ I shall fulfil to-morrow but the half of mj 
vow. I shall, if you help me, and my plan succeeds, 
release the son of the queen, but the daughter will 
remain behind in prison. You see, therefore, that 
I cannot leave Paris, for the daughter and sister- 
in-law of the queen are still prisoners, and I must 
release them.” 

“ But I should rather that you would go away 
with the boy, and never come back to Paris,” 
said Simon, thoughtfully. 

“ How so ? Do you not trust me ? ” 

“ I trust no one,” replied Simon, gloomily. 
“You might some day, when it might suit your 
humor, or in order to save yourself, betray me, and 
report me to the Committee of Safety.” 

“ What, I ! And ought I not to fear too ? 
Could not you betray me as well ? ” 

“ You know very well that I shall take care not 
to disclose a word of this whole history, for to 
disclose it would be to write my own death-warrant. 
But hush, now ; hush ! there is the Temple, and it 
seems to me as if the very walls looked at me ma- 
liciously, as if they wanted to say, ‘ There comes a 
traitor ! ’ Ah, Toulan, it is a bad thing to have an 
accusing conscience ! ” 

“ Help me faithfully to save the prince,' Simon, 
and you will have a good conscience all the rest 
of your life, for you will have done a grand and 
noble deed.” 

“In your eyes,” whispered Simon,' “ but not in 
those of the Convention, and when they learn 
about it — ^but here we are, and our talk and re- 
consideration are too late.” 

He struck three times with his fist against the 
closed gate of the outer court. The porter 
opened, and let the two men in, only saying that 
the guard had given his special consent to the 
bringing in of the hobby-horse. 

“ But about the commissioner whom you bring 
with you,” said the porter, reflectively, “ he did 
not make any mention, and I can only allow him 
to take your plaything into the second court. He 
must not go into the Temple.” 

“It is no particular wish of mine to go into a 
prison,” answered the commissioner, carelessly. 
“ It is a good deal easier to get in than to get out 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


245 


again. Well, take hold, Citizen Simon; for- 
ward ! ” 

They walked on to the second court. “ Now, 
then,” whispered Toulan, “ for caution and 
thoughtfulness ! To-morrow at ten o’clock I will 
be standing before the door, and you will call me 
in to help you in your moving.’^ 

“ I wish it were all over,” groaned Simon. “ It 
seems to me as if my head were shaking on my 
shoulders, and my heart beats as if I were a 
young girl.” 

“ Courage, Simon, only courage !. Remember 
that to-morrow you are to be a free and a rich man. 
Then, as soon as you give your basket to the 
washerwoman at the Macon gate, I will pay you 
the promised twenty thousand francs. And — ” 

“ Halt ! ” cried the sentinel at the entrance to 
the Temple. “ No one can go in here without a 
pass.” 

“ You do not want a pass for my rocking-horse, 
brother citizen, do you ? ” asked Simon, with a 
laugh. 

“ Nonsense ! I am speaking about the commis- 
sioner.” 

“ He is going of himself, and does not want to 
go in. But look him square in the face, for he 
will come to-morrow morning again. I have se- 
cured him in advance, to help me in moving out. 
Bring a wagon along, commissioner, for the things 
will be too heavy to carry without one. And 
now help put the horse on my shoulders. So ! 
Well, then, to-morrow morning at ten, commis- 
sioner.” 

“ To-morrow morning at ten,” replied Toulan, 
nodding to Simon, and slowly sauntering through 
the court. He stopped at the outer gate, told the 
porter that he was going to assist Simon in his 
moving on the morrow, and then asked in an in- 
different tone, whether Simon’s successor at the 
Temple was appointed. 

“Why, would you like the place?” asked the 
porter, grufldy. 

“ No, indeed, not I ! I have no taste for such 
work. It must be an awful air in the prison.” 

“ It is that,” replied the porter. “ And so after 
Simon has moved cut, they are going to cleanse 


the place a little, and give it an airing, and the 
successor will move in about noon.” 

“Well, I don’t envy the man who moves in,” 
said Toulan, with a laugh. “ Good-by, citizen, 
we shall see each other to-morrow.” 

He went out into the street, and slowly saun- 
tered along. At the end of it he stopped and 
gave a trifle to a beggar who, supported by a 
crutch, was leaning against a house. 

“ Is it all right thus far ? ” 

“ Yes, marquis, thank God, thus far every thing 
has gone on well. The horse is in the Temple, 
and nothing is discovered. 

“ May the grace of God stand by us to-mor- 
row!” whispered the beggar. “You are sure 
that all the arrangements are carefully attended 
to?” 

“ Entirely sure, M. de Jarjayes. While you are 
leaving Paris in the garb of a washerwoman, our 
two allies will both be driving out of two other 
gates, with the boy, in stylish carriages.” 

“And it will be you, Toulan, who will have 
saved the King of France,” whispered the beggar. 
“ Oh ! be sure that all France will thank you for 
it some day, and give you the title of savior of 
your country ! ” 

“ Baron,” said Toulan, shaking his head, “ for 
me there is but one title of honor, that which the 
Queen of France gave me. I am called Fidele, 
and I want no other name. But this one I will 
maintain so long as I live. Good-by till we meet 
to-morrow at the Porte Macon ! ” 

Little Prince Louis Charles received the hobby- 
horse, w^hich Simon carried into the chamber with 
a little more interest than in the case of the other 
playthings. He even raised himself up a little on 
his mattress, and directed a long, searching gaze 
at the tall, handsome wooden creature. 

“ Well,” asked the official, who had gone with 
Simon into the dungeon, and had watched the 
effect of the toy, “well, how does your horse 
please you, little Capet ? ” 

The boy nodded slowly, but made no reply ; he 
only reached out his long, thin, right hand, and 
made a motion as if he wanted to rise. 

“ To-morrow, little CapeV’ cried J3ai::!e Marie, 


246 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


holding him back. “ To-day you must keep en- 
tirely still, so the doctor said, and I will cut your 
hair otf directly, as the doctor ordered. But I 
should like to have you here, citizen, and oversee 
the operation. The boy will look much changed, 
when his long, yellow hair is cut off, and after- 
ward it might be supposed — ” 

“Yes, certainly,” interrupted Simon, with a 
laugh, “ afterward it might be supposed that it is 
not the stupid youngster who has troubled us so 
long, that out of pure tenderness and love we had 
taken him along with us.” 

“No one would consider the republican Simon 
capable of such a thing,” replied the official, and 
besides, the boy will stay here, and no substitute 
for him can fall out of the clouds. Be free from 
care, Simon. I myself shall recognize the boy 
to-morrow, and if he should look changed in ap- 
pearance, I shall know how it comes.” 

“ Yes, he will know how it comes,” said Simon, 
with a grin, as he watched the retreating form of 
the official, now leaving the prison. 

“Lock the door, Simon,” whispered Jeanne 
Marie. “We must let the boy out of this if he is 
not to be stifled ! ” 

“No, no,” said Simon, motioning his wife to 
retreat from the hobby-horse which she was ap- 
proaching. “ He will not be stifled, for beneath 
the saddle-cloth there are nothing but air-holes, 
and he can endure it a good while. We must 
above all things be cautious and prepared for 
every thing. It would be a fine thing, would it 
not, if the officials who are on guard in the Tem- 
ple should conceive the idea of making the 
rounds a second time for the purpose of inspec- 
tion. He cannot be carried out before it strikes 
ten from Notre Dame. We will, however, give 
him a little more air.” 

He removed the saddle with care, which was 
let into the back of the w^ooden horse, and lis- 
tened at the opening. 

“ He breathes very peacefully and evenly,” he 
then said, softly. “He seems to be asleep. 
Jeanne Marie, hold the saddle in your hand, and 
at the least approach fit it again in its place. I 
wiU now take hold and pack our things.” 


When the night came, and the last rounds had 
been made past the closed doors of Simon’s 
rooms, and the officials had withdrawn into the 
great hall, where they stayed during the night- 
watch, there was an unusual stir within Simon’s 
apartments. Jeanne Marie, who had thrown her- 
self in her clothes upon the bed, slipped out from 
beneath the coverlet. Simon, who was standing I 

near the door listening, advanced to the little i 

■ i 

prince, and bade him in a whisper to get up. 

The child, which now seemed to have recov- 
ered from its indifference and stupidity, rose at 
once, and at Simon’s further command made an 
effort to remove his clothes, and to put on in 
their place the coarse woollen suit and the linen 
trowsers which Simon drew out of his bed and 
handed to him. 

The toilet was soon completed, and the little 
prince looked with a timid, inquiring glance at Si- 
mon, who was regarding him with a searching eye. 

“ And the stockings, master ? ” he asked. “ Do 
not I have any stockings ? ” 

“No,” growled Simon — “no, the son of i. 
washerwoman wants no stockings. There are 
some wooden shoes which will be laid for you in 
the basket, and you put them on afterward, if we 
are fortunatd in getting away. But you must cut 
his hair, Jeanne Marie. With long hair he will 
not look like a boy from the people.” 

Jeanne Marie shuddered. “I cannot,” she 
whispered; “it would seem to me as if I were 
cutting off his head, and the woman in white 
would stand behind, and pierce me through with 
her great ejes.” 

“ Come, come, that old story again ! ” growled 
Simon. “ Give me the scissors, then ; I will take 
care of it, for the boy must part with his hair be- 
fore he goes into the basket. Come, come, do not 
shrink and curl up so ; I was not speaking of the 
guiUotine-basket, but of your dirty-clothes basket. 
Come, Capet, I want to cut your hair.” 

He took the great shears from the work-basket, 
and sat down on a stool by the side of the table, 
on which burned a dim tallow candle, throwing 
an uncertain light through the apartment. “ Come, 
Capet ! ” 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


The boy stole up with an insecure step, and 
shrank together when Simon seized him and 
drew him between his knees. 

“ Do not hurt him, Simon. Be careful of him,” 
whispered Jeanne Marie, sinking on the floor and 
folding her hands. “Remember, husband, that 
she is here, and that she is looking at you, and 
that she bores into my head with her eyes when 
you do any harm’to the child.” 

Simon looked around with a shy and anxious 
glance. “It is high time that we were away 
from here,” he growled — “high time, if I am 
not to be crazy as well as you. Stoop down, 
Capet, so that I can cut your hair off.” The 
child let his head fall; but a faint, carefully 
suppressed sob came from his breast, while Si- 
mon’s shears w^ent clashing through his locks, 
severing them from his head. 

“What are you crying for, Capet?” asked 
Simon, zealously going forward with his work. 

“ I am so sorry, master, to have my locks cut 
off.” 

“You probably suppose, you vain monkey, that 
your locks are particularly beautiful ? ” 

“ Oh, no, master ! It is only,” sighed the boy 
with his eyes full of tears — “ it is only because 
her hand has rested on them, and because 8he 
kissed them when I saw her the last time.” 

“ Who is 8he^ ” asked Simon, roughly. 

“ My mamma queen,” replied Louis with such 
a tone of tenderness as to bring tears into the 
eyes of Jeanne Marie, and even to move the cob- 
bler himself. 

“ Hush ! ” be said, softly. “ Hush ! you must 
never call your mother by such a name. After 
to-morrow morning you are to be the son of a 
washerwoman. Remember that, and now be 
still ! There, your hair is done now. Pick up 
the locks from the floor and lay them on the 
table, Jeanne Marie. We must leave them here, 
that the officer may find them in the morning, 
and not wonder if he does not recognize the 
urchin. Now we will bring the wash-basket and 
see whether young Capet will go into it.” 

He brought out of the chamber a high, covered 
basket, grasped the boy, thrust him in, and or- 


247 

dered him to lie down on the bottom of the 
basket. 

“He exactly fits!” said Simon to his wife. 
“We will now throw some dirty clothes over 
him, and he can spend the night in the basket. 
We must be ready for anything; for there are 
many distrustful officials, and it would not be the 
first time that they have made examinations in 
the night. Little Capet must remain in the bas- 
ket, and now we will take his substitute out of 
the horse.” 

He went to the hobby-horse, took out some 
screws which ran along the edges of the up- 
holstery, and then carefully removed the upper 
part of the animal from the lower. In the hol- 
low thus brought to light, lay a pale, sick boy, 
with closed eyes — the nephew of the Marquis de 
Jarjayes, the last descendant of the Baroness de 
Tardif, ' now, as all his ancestors had done, to 
give his life for his king. 

Jeanne Marie rose from her knees, took a lisrht 
from the table, and approached the child, which 
was lying in its confined space as in a coffin. 

The little prince had raised himself up in his 
basket, and his pale face was visible as he looked, 
out of his large blue eyes, with curiosity and 
amazement at the sick child. 

“He does not look like the king’s son,” whis- 
pered Jeanne Marie, after a long, searching study 
of the pale, bloated face of the idiot. 

“We will put his clothes on at once, then hex 
will look all right, for clothes make the man. 
Stand up, little one, you need to get up. You 
are not to stay any longer in your curious 
prison.” 

“ He does not understand you,” said Jeanne 
Marie. “ Do not you remember that Toulan told 
us that the boy is perfectly deaf and dumb ? ” 

“ True ; I had forgotten it, and yet it is for- 
tunate for us, for a deaf and dumb person can- 
not disclose any dangerous secrets. Come, Jeanne 
Marie, give me the clothes ; we will dress up the 
little mute like a prince.” 

They put upon him the velvet jacket, the short 
trowsers of black cloth, the shoes and stockings 
of the prince, who still was looking out of his 


248 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON 


basket at the pale, softly-moaning child, which 
was now placed by Simon and his wife on the 
mattress. 

“ There,” said Simon, throwing the coverlet 
over the boy, “ there, the royal prince is ready, 
and we can say, as they used to do at St. Denis, 
when they brought a new occ:upant into the royal 
vault, '‘Le roi est mort^ vive le roi / ’ Lie quietly in 
your basket, Capet, for you see you are deposed, 
and your successor has your throne.” 

“ Master,” whispered Louis, anxiously and tim- 
idly, “ master, may I ask you a question ? ” 
“Well, yes, you may, you little nameless toad. 
What is it?” 

“ Master, will the sick child have to die, if I 
am saved ? ” 

“ What do you mean, youngster ? What are 
you at ? ” 

“ I only mean, master — I only wanted to say 
that if the poor boy must die, if he takes my 
place, why — I should rather stay here. For — ” 
“Well, go on, stupid! what do you mean by 
your ‘ for ? ’ You would rather remain here ? ” 

“ Yes, master, if another is to die and be beaten 
and tortured, for blows hurt so much, and I should 
not like to have another boy receive them instead 
of me. That would be wicked in me, and — ” 

“ And you are a stupid fellow, and do not know 
any thing you are talking about,” said Simon, 
shaking his fist at him. “ Just put on airs, and 
speak another such a foolish word, and I will not 
only beat you to death, but I will beat this miser- 
able, whining youngster to death too, and then 
you will certainly be to blame for it. Down with 
you into the basket, and if you venture to put 
your head up again, and if to-morrow you are not 
obedient and do just what we bid you, I will beat 
you and him, both of you, to pieces, and pack 
you into the clothes-basket, and carry you away. 
Down into the basket 1 ” 

The boy sank down out of sight ; and when, 
after a little while, Jeanne Marie cautiously looked 
to see whether he had fallen asleep, she saw that 
Louis Charles was kneeling on the bottom of the 
basket, and raising his folded hands up to heaven. 
“ Simon,” she whispered — “ Simon, do not laugh 


at me and scold me. You say, I know, that there 
is no God, and the republic has done away with 
Deity, and the Church, and the priests. But let 
me once kneel down and pray to Him with whom 
little Louis Charles is talking now, and to whom 
the Austrian spoke on the scaffold.” 

Without waiting for Simon’s answer, Jeanne 
Marie sank upon her knees. Folding her hands, 
she leaned her forehead on the rim of the basket, 
and softly whispered, “ Louis Charles, do you hear 
me? ” 

“Yes,” lisped the child, “I hear you.” 

“ I ask your forgiveness,” whispered Jeanne 
Marie. “ I have sinned dreadfully against you, 
but remorse has taken hold of my heart, and 
tears it in pieces and gives me no rest day or 
night. Oh, forgive me, son of the queen, and 
when you pray, implore your mother to forgive 
me the evil that I have done her.” 

“ I will pray to my dear mamma queen for you, 
and I know she will forgive you, for she was so 
very good, and she always said to me that we 
must forgive our enemies ; and I had to swear to 
my dear papa that I would forget and forgive all 
the wrong that men should do to me. And so I 
forgive you, and I will forget all the bad things 
that Master Simon has done to me, for my papa 
and my mamma wished me to.” 

Jeanne Marie let her head sink lower, and 
pressed her hands firmly against her lips to re- 
press the outcries which her remorseful conscience 
prompted. Simon seemed to understand nothing 
of this soft whispering ; he was busily engaged in 
packing up his things, and no one saw him hastily 
draw his hand over his eyes, as if he wanted to 
wipe away the dust ^which suddenly prevented 
his seeing. 

Gradually it grew still in the gloomy room. 
The whispering in the basket ceased. Jeanne 
Marie had retired to her bed, and had wept her- 
self to sleep. Upon the mattress lay the sick, 
sobbing child, the substitute of King Louis XYIL, 
who was in the basket. 

Simon was the only one who was awake, and 
there must have been dismal thoughts that busied 
him. He sat upon the stool near the candlq 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


249 


wbich was nearly burned out, bis forehead was 
corrugated and clouded, his lips were closely 
pressed together, and the little, flashing eyes 
looked out into the empty apace full of anger and 
threaten iugs. 

“It must be,” he muttered at last, “it must 
be. I should otherwise not have a moment’s 
peace, and always feel the knife at my throat. 
One of us must be away from here, in order that 
he may disclose the other. I will not be that one, 
it must be Toulan.” 

He stood up with the air of one who had made 
a fixed, unchangeable resolve, and stretched his 
bony, crooked limbs. Then he threvv one last 
look at the stranger-child, that lay moaning and 
groaning on his mattress, fell upon his bed, and 
soon his long-drawn, sonorous breathing disclosed 
the fact that Master Simon was asleep. 

On the next morning there reigned in the lower 
stories of the Temple a busy, stirring life. Mas- 
ter Simon was preparing to move, and all his 
household goods were set out in the court, in or- 
der to be transferred to the wagon that Commis- 
sioner Toulan had ordered. Close to the wagon 
stood one of the officials of the Public Safety, and 
examined every article of furniture that was put 
into it, opening even the bandboxes and pillows 
to look into them. Not, as he said, the Welfare 
Committee doubted the honesty of the faithful 
and zealous servant of the republic, but only to 
satisfy the forms, and to comply with the laws, 
which demanded that the authorities should have 
a watchful eye on every thing that was at all con- 
nected with the family of the tyrants. 

“ And you will do me a great pleasure if you 
will examine every thing with the utmost care. 
In the republic we are all alike, and I do not see 
why I should not be served to-day as another 
would be on the morrow. You know, probably, 
that I have been appointed collector at Porte 
Macon, and after to-morrow I shall have to in- 
spect the goods of other^ people. It is all fair 
that I should have my turn to-day. Besiles, you 
will not have much more to examine, we are al- 
most through ; I believe there is only a basket 
with the soiled clothes yet to com e. That is the 


sacred possession of my wife, and she was going 
to bring it out herself, with the commissioner’s 
help. Yes, there they come.” 

At that moment, Jeanne Marie appeared in the 
court, followed by Toulan. They brought along, 
by two ropes which served as handles, a large 
and longish basket, whose half-opened cover 
brought to view all kinds of women’s clothes. 

“ Room there,” cried Simon, with a laugh, 
“ room for the Citoyenne Simon and her costly 
dowry ! ” 

“ Come, no joking, Simon,” said his wife, threat- 
ening him with her fist and laughing. “ If my 
dowry is not costly enough, I will only ask you 
to provide me with better things.” 

“Your dowry is magnificent,” said Simon, 
“ and there is not a single article lacking to 
make it complete. Come, I will help the com- 
missioner put the basket in the wagon, for it is 
too heavy for you, my fairest one ! ” 

He took hold of the basket with his strong arm, 
and helped the commissioner swing it into the 
wagon. 

“ But let me look first into the basket, as my 
duty demands,” said the official. “ You are too 
quick ! You know, citizen, that I must examine 
all your goods. The law compels me to.” 

“ Then I beg you to climb up into the wagon 
and open the basket,” said Simon, calmly. “ You 
cannot want us to take the heavy thing down 
again for you to examine it.” 

“ I do not ask that, citizen, but I must examine 
the basket.” 

The official sprang into the wagon, but Jeanne 
Marie was quicker than he, and stood close by 
the basket, whose cover was partly opened. 

“Look in, citizen,” she said, with dignity. 
“ Convince yourself that only the clothing of a 
woman is in it, and then tell the republic that 
you found it necessary to examine the basket of 
the famous knitter of the guillotine^ as if Jeanne 
Marie was a disguised duchess, who wanted to fly 
from the hand of justice.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the official, “ every 
one knows and honors the knitter of the guillo 
tine, but — ” 


250 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ But you are curious, and want to see some of 
my clothes. Well, look at them ! ” She raised 
those which lay at the top, and held them up to 
the official with a laugh. 

“And down below ? What is farther down in 
the basket ? ” 

“ Farther down,” replied Jeanne Marie, with an 
expression of the greatest indignation and the 
most outraged modesty, “ farther down are my 
dirty clothes, and I hope the republic will not 
consider it necessary to examine these too. I 
would at least oppose it, and call every female 
friend I have to my help.” * 

“ Oh ! you will not have to do that,” replied the 
official, with a friendly nod of the head. “It 
would be presumptuous to go farther with the ex- 
amination of your goods, and the republic re- 
gards with respect the mysteries of an honorable 
wife.” 

He jumped down from the wagon, while Jeanne 
Marie, still wearing an angry look, laid the 
clothes back into the basket, and shut the cover 
down. 

“ Can we go now ? ” she asked, taking her 
seat on a low stool which happened to be near 
the great basket. 

“ Yes, if the official has nothing against it, 
we can go,” answered Simon. “ Our goods are 
all loaded.” 

“ Then go on, I have nothing against it, and I 
wish you and your wife much happiness and joy 
in your new career.” 

The official waved them a last gracious adieu 
with the hand, and the wagon started. Along- 
side of the great, hard-mouthed and long-haired 
horse that drew the cart, walked the commissioner, 
in order, once in a while, when they had to turn a 
corner, to seize the bridle and give it a powerful 
jerk. At the side of the wagon strode Simon, 

* Madame Simon’s own words, reported from her own 
account, which ^he gave in the year 1819 to the Sisters of 
Mercy who cared for her in her last sickness. The sis- 
terhood of the female hospital in the rue Sevres publicly 
repeated, in the year 1851, this statement of Jeanne 
Mario Simon, who died there in 1819. It was in the 
civil process brought against the Duke de Normandy, who 
was accused of giving himself out falsely as King Louis 
XYII., and who could not be proved not to be he. 


keeping a watchful eye upon his possessions, and 
carefully setting every thing aright which was in 
danger of being shaken off upon the pavement. 
Above in the carriage near the great basket sat 
Jeanne Marie, the former knitter of the guillotine. 
Her naked brown arm rested upon the basket, on 
whose bottom, covered with dirty linen and Mis- 
tress Simon’s clothes, was the son of Marie An- 
toinette, King Louis XYII., making his entrance 
into the world which should have for him only 
sufferings and illusions, shattered hopes and de- 
throned ideals. 

This happened on the 1 9th of January, 1794, 
and on the very day in which the unhappy King 
Louis XYI. was leaving the Temple, his sister 
Theresa, who was still living with her Aunt Eliza- 
beth in the upper rooms, wrote in her diary 
(known subsequently by the title “ Recit des 
^venements arrives au Temple, par Madame Roy- 
ale”) the following words : “ On the 19th of Jan- 
uary, my aunt and I heard beneath us, in the 
room of my brother, a great noise, which made 
us suspect that my brother was leaving the Tem- 
ple. We were convinced of it when, looking 
through the keyhole of the door, we saw goods 
carried away. On the following day we heard the 
door of the room, in which my brother had been, 
opened, and recognized the steps of men walking 
around, which confirmed us in the belief that he 
had been carried away.” 

The pitiful wagon, which gave its hospitality to 
the knitter of the revolution, as well as to a king, 
drove slowly and carefully through the streets, 
unnoticed by the people who hastily passed by. 
Now and then they encountered a commissioner 
who came up to Toulan, greeted him as an ac- 
quaintance, and asked after his welfare. Toulan 
nodded to them confidentially, and answered 
them loudly that he was very well, and that he 
was helping Simon move out of the Temple, and 
going with him to Porte Macon. 

The commissioners then wished him a pleasant 
journey, and went their way ; but the farther 
they were from the wagon, the quicker were their 
steps, and here and there they met other commis 
sioners, to whom they repeated Toulan’s words, 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


251 


and who then went from there and again told 
them over to their friends in the streets, in quiet, 
hidden chambers, and in brilliant palaces. In 
one such palace the tidings caused a singular 
commotion. Count Frotte, who lived there, and 
whom the public permitted to live in Paris, or- 
dered his travelling carriage to be brought out at 
once. The postihon, with four swift horses, had 
already stood in the court below half an hour, 
waiting for this order. The horses were quickly 
harnessed to the carriage, which was well filled 
with trunks ; and scarcely had it reached the 
front door, when the count hurried down the 
grand staircase, thickly wrapped in his riding- 
furs. At his right sat a little boy of scarcely ten 
years, a velvet cap, trimmed with fur, upon his 
short, fair hair ; the slender, graceful form con- 
cealed with a long velvet cloak, that fell down as 
far as the shoes with golden, jewelled buckles. 

Count Frotte seemed to bestow special care 
and attention upon this boy, for he not only had 
him sit on his right, but remained standing near 
the door, to give precedence to the boy, and then 
hastened to follow him. He pressed the servants 
back who stood near the open door, bowed re- 
spectfully, and gave his hand to the lad to assist 
him in ascending. The youth received these 
tokens of respect quietly, and seemed to take it 
as a matter of course that Count Frotte should 
carefully put furs around his feet and body, in 
order to protect him from every draft. As soon 
as this was done, the count entered the carriage, 
and took his place at the left of the boy. The 
servant closed the carriage-door with a loud slam, 
and the steward advanced with respectful mien, 
and asked whither the count would order to go. 

“ The road to Puy,” said the count, with a loud 
voice, and the steward repeated to the postilion 
just as loudly and clearly, “ The road to Puy.” 

The carriage drove thunderiugly out of the 
court-door, and the servant looked after it till it 
disappeared, and then followed the house-stew- 
ard, who motioned him to come into the cab- 
inet. 

“ I have something to tell you, citizen,” said 
the steward, with a weighty air, “ but first I must 


beg you to make me a solemn promise that you 
will continue a faithful and obedient servant of 
the count, and prove in no way false to your oath 
and your duty.” 

The servant pledged himself solemnly, and the 
steward continued : “ The count has undertaken 
a journey which is not to be spoken of, and is to 
remain, if possible, a secret. I demand of you, 
therefore, that if any one asks where the count 
has gone, you answer that you do not know. But 
above all things, you are not to say that the count 
is not travelling alone, but in company with the 
young — gentleman, whose name and rank I know 
just as little about as you. Will you promise to 
faithfully heed my words ? ” 

The servant asserted it with solemn oaths and 
an expression of deep reverence. The steward 
beckoned to him to go, and then looked at him 
for a long time, and with a singular expression as 
he withdrew. 

“ He is a spy of the Safety Committee,” he 
whispered to himself. “ I am convinced that he 
is so, and he will certainly go at once and report 
to the authorities, and they will break their heads 
thinking what the count has to do in Puy, and who 
the boy is who accompanies my lord. Well, that 
is exactly what we want ; to put the bloodhounds 
and murderers on a false scent. That is just the 
object of the count, and for that purpose M. Morin 
de Gueriviere has lent his only son, for all that 
we have and are, our lives, our children, and 
every thing else, belong to our king and lord. 
I hope, therefore, that the count’s plan will suc- 
ceed, and the Safety Committee be put on a false 
scent.” 

Meanwhile the pitiful carriage containing Si- 
mon’s goods had slowly taken its way through 
the streets and halted at its goal, the custom- 
house near Porte Macon. Before the building 
stood a woman in the neat and tasteful costume 
of the washerwomen from the village of Yannes, 
which then, as now, was the abode of the washer- 
women of Paris. 

“Well,” cried the woman, with a loud laugh, 
helping Mistress Simon dismount from the wagon 
— “ well, you have come at last. For two hours 


252 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


I have been waiting for you, for you ordered me 
to be here at eleven, and now it is one. What 
will my husband and my little boy say about my 
coming home so late ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Jeanne Marie, with 
a kindly voice. “ Our ride was a good deal slower 
than I thought, for the things were packed only 
loosely, and if we had ridden faster they would 
easily have been injured. But I will not detain 
you longer, and you shall have my wash at once. 
There are a great many clothes this time, and I 
have therefore thrown them all at once into the 
basket; so you can put the basket right upon 
your wagon and bring the things back in it. 
Halloa, Simon, and you, commissioner, take hold 
and lift the basket down, and carry it out to the 
washerwoman’s wagon that is standing near the 
gate.” 

The two men immediately lifted the great bas- 
ket out, and carried it to the open cart which 
stood there, in which lay arranged in regular 
order great bundles of dirty linen. Near the gate 
stood the sub-collector, whose superior Simon 
now was, and it therefore did not occur to him 
to examine the basket which his new chief was 
putting in the washerwoman’s wagon. Some 
busybodies who stood around turned their whole 
attention to the wagon which contained the fur- 
niture and goods of the new collector, who was, 
of course, a very important person in this remote 
quarter, and Jeanne Marie endeavored with her 
loud words and choleric gesticulations to fasten 
the attention of the idlers upon herself. Nobody 
regarded the two men, who had just put the 
basket into the washerwoman’s cart, and no one 
heard the words that they softly spoke together. 

The washerwoman had raised the cover, and 
was rolling around the clothes, as if she wanted 
to examine the contents of the basket. 

“ Sire,” she whispered, softly, as she did so — 
“ sire, do you hear me ? ” 

A weak, faint voice replied, “ I hear you.” 

And shall you be able to bear it, if you stay 
a little longer in your hiding-place ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I shall be able to bear it ; but I am 
anxious, and I should like to be away from here.” 


The washerwoman closed the cover of the 
basket, and sprang down from the wagon. 
“Everything is in order,” she said, “and it is 
high time that I should be off. I have a long 
way to go, and my husband and child are expect- 
ing me.” 

“ Then go, with God’s blessing,” said the com- 
missioner, shaking hands with the washerwoman 
as if she were an old acquaintance. “ Go, with 
God’s blessing, and may He protect you from 
all calamity, and bless you with happiness and 
joy ! ” 

He spoke loudly, as if this was intended for the 
ear of some person besides the washerwoman. 
And another had heard the words of Toulan, 
and a soft and tremulous voice called : “ Fare- 
well, Fiddle ; I thank you, dear Toulan.” 

The wagon was at once in motion, and drove 
quickly down the street through the rows of 
small houses in the suburbs. The two men stood 
and looked after it till the washerwoman’s car- 
riage disappeared in a cloud of dust. 

Toulan raised his eyes slowly to heaven, and a 
pious expression illumiued his good, energetic 
countenance. 

“ Thou lookest down upon me, my queen and 
mistress,” he said, softly and inaudibly. “ I feel 
the glance of thy heavenly eyes, and it rests like a 
hallowed blessing upon my thankful heart. I 
know, my queen, that thou art satisfied with me 
this hour, and it seems to me as if thy loved 
voice were whispering above me in the air the 
word Fiddle. Give me now thy blessing, that I 
may end my work, and rescue the daughter and 
the sister as I have rescued the son. My life is 
devoted to thy service, and I shall save all thy 
dear ones or die ! ” 

“Well, Toulan,” said Simon, softly, “I have 
kept my word, and little Capet is released. Are' 
you going to keep yours V ” 

“ Certainly I shall,” said Toulan, whose glance 
slowly fell from heaven, and whose face still 
glowed like one in a trance. “ Yes, Simon, I shall 
keep my word to you as you have yours to me. 
Come into your house, that I may pay you.” 

He withdrew quickly from the gate and entered 


THE HOBBY-HORSE. 


253 


the house which thereafter was to be the house 
of the collector Simon. All was going on busily 
there, for Jeanne Marie had impressed into her 
service not only the sub-collector but some of the 
curious spectators, and she scolded her husband, 

V ho was just coming in with Toulan, for talking 
^jo long with the washerwoman instead of helping 
her. 

“Do you two take the heavy mattresses and 
carry them into the next room.” 

The two men quickly obeyed, and bore the 
mattresses into the chamber. Then they locked 
themselves in. Toulan took several rolls from 
the great waistcoat which he wore under his blue 
blouse, broke them asunder, and let the gold- 
pieces fall out upon the mattress. 

“ Count them, Simon,” he said, “ to see that 
there are exactly two hundred and fifty double 
gold-pieces, all bearing the exalted symbols of 
‘ the one, great, and indivisible republic.’ May they 
bring you joy, and be a reward for the great good 
fortune which you have brought to me, and to all 
who love the king and his house.” 

“ But will no one reveal me ? ” asked Simon, 
anxiously, while busily engaged in collecting the 
gold-pieces, and hiding them between the mat- 
tresses. “ Say, Toulan, will no one divulge and 
report me to the authorities ? ” 

“ Be quiet, Simon, and fear nothing. To be- 
tray you, would be at the same time to betray 
the great cause which we serve, and to surrender 
the young king to the persecution of his enemies. 
But no one knows, excepting me, that of your 
own free will you have helped save the king. 
With express reference to your safety, I have 
made all the other allies believe that I have de- 
ceived you, and that you know nothing of the 
concealment of the child. So be entirely without 
concern. Only Toulan knows your secret, and 
Toulan is silent as the grave. But let us go out 
now and help your wife bring the things into the 
house, and afterward you can let me go without 
any further leave-taking. Farewell, citizen ; may 
you be entirely successful in your new field of 
labor.” 

He nodded with a friendly air to Simon, and as 


Jeanne Marie just then called the commissioner 
with a loud voice, Toulan hastily opened the door 
and hurried to her. 

Simon followed him with a long, dark look.^ 
Then he slowly shook his head, and his eye kin- 
dled. 

“ It must be,” he said to himself, softly. “ I 
should otherwise have no rest day or night, and 
it would be worse than in the Temple. He said 
so himself : only Toulan knows my secret. So if 
Toulan dies, my secret dies with Toulan, and is 
buried with him, and I can then enjoy my life, 
and shall not need to live in anxiety, and in per- 
petual fear of being betrayed. But,” he contin- 
ued, after a brief pause, “ what is done, must be 
done quickly, otherwise I may fall into the very 
pit I have digged for Toulan ! If the little Capet 
is fairly carried to a place of safety, and escapes 
out of the republic, Toulan can avenge himself by 
reporting the whole story and bringing me to mis- 
fortune. I must, therefore, while I am secure, 
take away from the fellow the means of betraying 
me. Yes, yes, it must be so ; Toulan must die, 
that Simon may live. Look out for your own • 
self first, and then your neighbors.” 

With a decided step, Simon left the room 
and entered the chamber, where Toulan was 
busy with Jeanne Marie in arranging the furni- 
ture. 

“ I am glad to find you here still,” said Simon, 
nodding to him ; “ for I had entirely forgotten to 
tell you that I have a present for you, which will 
certainly please you, and which I have saved and 
laid away expressly for you.” 

“ What is it, Simon ? What kind of a present 
have you for me ? ” 

“ A very precious one, at least such as you and 
your like will consider so, I think. I have the 
long, yellow locks which Jeanne Marie cut yester- 
day from little Capet’s head.” 

“ And will you give them to me ? ” asked Tou- 
lan, eagerly. 

“ Yes, that will I, and it is for that purpose 
that I have brought them along. They are lying, 
with all the letters, in my work-box. But I can- 
1 not get at them to-day in all the confusion, foi 


254 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


they are at the very bottom of the box. But 
come to-morrow morning, and you shall receive 
your costly treasure. If you like, you can come 
about nine o’clock ; and if I should hnppen to 
have any thing to do, and not be here, I will give 
the hair to Jeanne Marie, and she will hand it to 
you.” 

“ Be sure that I shall come,” said Toulan, ear- 
nestly. “ Give me your hand, and let me thank 
you for your delicate act of kindness. I certainly 
did you a wrong, for I did not hold you capable 
of such a deed. I thank you, Simon, I thank you 
from my heart; and to-morrow morning, punc- 
tually at nine, I shall be here to receive my pre- 
cious possession. Farewell till then, Simon ! I 
have no quiet now, but must run around and 
see whether every thing seems as usual in the 
Temple, and our secret undiscovered.” He hast- 
ened away, and disappeared around the corner. 

The whole day Simon was busy with his own 
thoughts, and engaged in arranging the furniture, 
with his mind clearly not on his work. In the 
afternoon he declared that he must go to the 
Temple again, because in the upper corridor he 
had left a chest with some utensils in it which 
were his. 

“ It seems to me, husband, you are homesick 
for the Temple,” s^id Jeanne Marie jestinglv, 
“ and you are sad because you are no longer in 
the old, black walls.” 

“ Yes, I am homesick for the Temple,” replied 
Simon, ‘‘ and that is why I go there.” 

But he did not take the way to the Temple, but 
to the city hall, and rang the bell so violently that 
the porter dashed to the door to open it. 

“It is you, citizen,” he ejaculated. “I thought 
something must Have happened.” 

“ Something has happened, and I have come to 
inform the Committee of Safety,” answered Simon, 
impetuously. “ Has it met ? ” 

“Yes, it is in the little council-chamber. 
You will find an officer at the door, and can let 
him announce you.” 

Simon strode forward and found the sentinel 
before the door, who asked him what his business 
there was. 


“ Go in, citizen, and announce that Simon is 
here, and brings important news, of great peril to 
the state.” 

A minute later, Simon was ushered into the 
hall in which the Safety Committee were assem- 
bled. All those stern-faced men of the republic 
knew Simon as a faithful and zealous republican, 
upon whose devotion they could reckon, and 
whose fidelity was immovable. 

“ I am come,” said Simon, slowly, “ I am come 
to bring an accusation against a certain person as 
a conspirator against the republic, and a traitor 
to our liberties.” 

“ Who is it, and what has he done ? ” asked the 
chairman, with a cold smile. 

“ What has he done ? He means to do some- 
thing, and I mean to prevent him. He means to 
release the wolf’s whelp from the Temple. Who 
knows but he may have done so already, for when 
I left the Temple this morning, my successor had 
not come, and little Capet was alone. Who is it 
that is able to release the boy and the two ladies ? 
It is Toulan, the traitor, the royalist Toulan ! ” 

“ Toulan ! ” replied Petion, with a shrug. “We 
know very well that Toulan is a traitor, and that 
the republic can expect only the worst from him 
that he can do. He was accused once, but es- 
caped merited punishment by flight, and he has 
unquestionably gone to Coblentz to join the ty- 
rant’s brothers there. Our police are watchful, 
and have discovered not a trace of him.” 

“ Then allow me to put the police on his track,” 
said Simon, laughing. “ Be so good as to send a 
couple of officers to me to-morrow, and I will de- 
liver Toulan, the traitor, into their hands.” 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 
toulan’s death. 

The next morning, at the stroke of nine, Toulan, 
in the garb of a commissioner, entered the house 
of the new collector at the Macon gate. Simon 
received him at the door, and conducted him into 
the sitting-room. 


TOULAN’S DEATH. 


255 


*‘You see,” said Toulan, “that I am punctual, 
“ and I must tell you that I have been almost too 
impatient to wait. I hope you do not regret your 
promise, and that you mean to give me the noble 
present that you promised me.” 

“Unfortunately I can not,” answered Simon, 
with a shrug. “ My wife insisted on giving you 
the hair with her own hands, and she has just 
gone out. You will have to wait for her, if you 
really are anxious to possess the hair of little 
Capet.” 

“ Yes, I am anxious to own it,” replied Toulan. 
“ The hair of my dear young king will be my most 
cherished possession, and — ” 

“ Come, come,” interrupted Simon, “ there you 
exaggerate. The gold salt’s-bottle, which the 
Austrian gave you, is a great deal dearer to you, 
is it not ? You still have that, have you not ? ” 

“ Still have it ? ” cried Toulan. “ I would 
sooner part with my life than with this remem- 
brancer of Marie Antoinette ! ” 

“ Well, then, see which you would rather keep, 
your life, or the bottle the Austrian gave you,” 
said Simon, with a laugh, as he sprang toward 
the door and opened it. Two officials of the 
Safety Committee, followed by armed men, en- 
tered. 

“ Have you heard every thing ? ” asked Simon, 
triumphantly. 

“ Yes, we have heard every thing, and we ar- 
rest you, Toulan, as a traitor. Take him to the 
Conciergerie. The authorities will decide what 
shall be done with him further.” 

“Well,” said Toulan, calmly, “the authorities 
will, perhaps, do me the honor of letting me go 
the same way that my king and my queen have 
taken, and I shall follow the example of the noble 
sufferers, and die for the hallowed cause of royal- 
ty. Let us go, that I may not longer breathe the 
air which the blasphemer and traitor Simon has 
poisoned. Woe upon you, Simon ! In your 
dying hour think of me, and of what I say to you 
now : You are sending me to death, that you may 
live in peace. But you will find no peace on 
earth, and if no man accuses you, your conscience 
will. On your dying bed you will see me before 


you, and on the day of judgment you will hear my 
voice, accusing you before the throne of God as a 
betrayer and murderer. May my blood come on 
your head, Simon ! ” 

Simon lived to enjoy his freedom and his money 
only a short time. At the expiration of a year he 
fell into lunacy, which soon made him attempt his 
own life. He died in the Asylum of Bic^tre. His 
wife lived till 1821, in a hospital at Paris, and in 
her dying hour asserted that little Capet was re- 
leased in the way above related. 

On the next day, there was a great excitement 
within the Temple, and the Safety Committee re- 
paired thither in a body. The lamplighter, who 
made his rounds on the evening of the day on 
which Simon left the Temple, had asserted that 
the child that lay upon the mattress was not the 
little Capet. “ He must know this,” he said, “ for 
he had seen the child daily when he lighted the 
lamp in the boy’s room.” 

The new keeper, Augustus Lasne, was very 
much excited at the communication of the lamp- 
lighter, and at dawn of the next day repaired to 
the city hall to report the statement. The Safety 
Committee resolved on an immediate investigation 
of the Temple, after pledging one another to the 
deepest secrecy, and enjoining the same on all the 
servants at the Temple. 

The officials found on the mattress a moaning, 
feverish boy, in the garments of the dauphin. 
These they recognized as the ones which the re- 
public had had made a month before for little 
Capet, but no one could say whether this child, 
with a body covered with sores, a swollen face, 
and sunken, lustreless eyes, was really little Capet 
or not ; no one knew whether sickness had so 
changed his looks that this stupid, idiotic boy 
was the one whom they had all known when he 
was well, as they saw him joyously flitting around. 

First of all they summoned Doctor Naudin, the 
director of Hotel Dieu, to examine the boy. He 
appeared without delay, and declared solemnly 
and decidedly that this was the same boy whom 
he had seen there some days before when he 
visited Simon’s wife, only the English sickness 
which afflicted the child had distorted his limbs. 


256 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


while the cutting off of his hair gave him a 
changed look, and it was no wonder that the 
lamplighter failed to recognize him. 

Simon, who was summoned to give evidence, 
asserted the same thing, and affirmed that he re- 
cognized little Capet in the sick boy, and that his 
wife had cut off his hair only the day before. 
He brought the hair as a complete proof of the 
identity, and it was seen to agree perfectly with 
that of the sick child. 

Yet some of the officials still doubted, and 
their doubts were increased when on the same 
day the servant of Count Frott6 reported to the 
Safety Committee that his master had made a 
sudden and secret journey, accompanied by a boy, 
whom the count had treated with great defer- 
ence. 

This boy might be the dauphin, whom Count 
Frott4, in conjunction with Toulan, might have 
spirited out of the Temple in some secret way, 
and who must be followed at all hazards. At the 
same time the government were informed that the 
Count de St. Prix had left Paris in company with 
a boy, and had taken the road to Germany. Cha- 
zel, a member of the Convention, was sent secretly 
to Puy to arrest Frott6 and the boy there ; and 
Chauvaine, another member, was ordered to fol- 
low the road to Germany, and, if possible, to 
bring back Count St. Prix. 

After a. ^ while both of them returned, with 
nothing accomplished. Chazel had, indeed, ar- 
rested Count Frotte and the boy in Puy, but the 
count had given such undeniable proofs that the 
boy was not the dauphin — ^he had summoned so 
many unimpeachable witnesses from Paris, who re- 
cognized the boy as the son of M. de Guerivi^re, 
who was in Coblentz with the princes, that nothing 
more remained but to release the count and his 
comrade. 

Chauvaine had not been able to arrest the 
Count de St. Prix, and had only learned that in 
company with a boy he had crossed the Rhine 
and entered Germany. 

It was of no use, therefore, to undertake far- 
ther investigations, and the conclusion must be 
firmly held to that the boy in the Temple, whose 


sickness increased from day to day, was the real 
Capet, the son of Louis XVI. The suspicion 
which had been aroused must be kept a deep se- 
cret, that the royalists should not take renewed 
courage from the possibility that the King of 
France had been rescued.* 

But the secret investigations, and the efforts to 
draw something from Toulan, caused the authori- 
ties to postpone his fate from week to week, from 
month to month. On the 20th of January he 
was arrested and taken to the Conciergerie, and 
not till the month of May did the Convention 
sentence him to death.' The charge was this ; 
that he had accepted presents from the Widow 
Capet, in particular the gold salt’s-bottle, and had 
made frequent plans to release the Capet family 
from prison. 

On the same day Madame Elizabeth, the sister 
of Louis XYL, was sentenced to death, on the 
charge of conducting a correspondence with her 
brothers, through the agency of Toulan, having 
for its end the release of the royal family. 

When the sentence was read to Madame Eliz- 
abeth, she smiled. “I thank my judges that 
they allow me to go to those I love, and whom I 
shall find in the presence of God.” 

Toulan received his sentence with perfect com- 
posure. “The one, indivisible, and exalted re- 
public is just as magnanimous, is it not, as the 
monarchy was in old times, and it will grant a 
last favor to one who has been condemned to 
death, will it not ? ” 

“Yes, it will do that, provided it is nothing 
impossible. It will gladly grant you a last re- 
quest.” 

“Well,” said Toulan, “then I ask that I may 
be executed the same day and the same hour as 
Madame Elizabeth, the sister of the king, and 
that I may be allowed to remain by her side at 
her execution.” 


* Later investigations in the archives of Paris have 
brought to light, among other important papers relative 
to the flight of the prince, a decree of the National Con- 
vention, dated Prairial 26 (June 14), 1794, which gave all 
the authorities orders “to follow the young Capet in all 
directions.” The boy who remained a prisoner in the 
Temple, died there June 8, 1798, a complete idiot. 


TOULAN’S DEATH. 


257 


Then you have only till to-raorrow to live, 
Citizen Toulan,” replied the presiding officer of 
the court, “ for Elizabeth Capet will be executed 
to-morrow.” 

Early the next morning three cars drove away 
from the Conciergerie. In each of these cars sat 
eight persons, men and women of the highest 
aristocracy. They had put on their most bril- 
liant court attire for that day, and arranged them- 
selves as for a holiday. Over the great crinoline 
thg ladies wore the richest silks, adorned with 
silver and gold lace; they jad had their hair 
dressed and decorated with flowers and ribbons, 
and carried elegant fans in their hands. The 
gentlemen wore velvet coats, brilliant with gold 
and silver, while cuffs of the finest lace encom- 
passed their white hands. Their heads were un- 
covered, and they carried the little three-cornered 
hat under the arm, as they had done at court in 
presence of the royal family. 

All the aristocrats imprisoned in cells at the 
Conciergerie had begged for the high honoi: of 
being executed on that day, and every one whose 
request had been granted, had expressed his 
thanks for it as for a favor. 

“What we celebrate to-day is the last court 
festival,” said the prisoners, as they ascended the 
cars to be carried to the guillotine. “We have 
the great good fortune .of being present at the 
last great levee, and we will show ourselves 
worthy of the honor.” All faces were smiling, 
all eyes beaming, and when the twenty-four con- 
demned persons dismounted from their cars at 
the foot of th# scaffold, one would believe that he 
saw twenty-four happy people preparing to go to 
a wedding. No one would have suspected that it 
was death to whom they were to be united. 

There were only two persons in this brilliant 
and select society who were less elegantly adorned 
than the others. One was the young girl, with 
the pale angel face, wffio sat between the sister of 
Malesherbes and the wife of the former minister, 
Montmorin, in a neat white robe, with a simple 
muslin veil, that surrounded her like a white 
cloud on which she was floating to heaven. The 
other was the man who sat behind her, whose 


firm, defiant countenance gave no token that an 
hour before he had wept hot, bitter tears as he 
took leave of his wife and only child. But this 
was all past, and on that lofty, thoughtful brow 
not the slightest trace remained of earthly sor- 
row. The pains of each had been surmounted, 
and, even in death, Toulan would do honor to 
the name which that woman had given him — 
whom he had loved most sacredly on earth — and 
he would die as Fiddle. 

The ladies and gentlemen of this unwontedly 
solemn company, who w^re collected here in 
view of the scaffold, had dismounted from the 
cars. Above stood the glistening instrument of 
death, and near it the executioners. They were 
all left free to decide in what order they w’ould 
ascend and place the head beneath the axe. The 
Convention had made the simple order that 
Madame Elizabeth should be the last but one, 
and that Toulan should follow her. 

Joyous and bright was the countenance of the 
princess; joyous and bright was the aspect of the 
improvised court, w'hose master of ceremonies 
was Death. 

The gentlemen had begged the favor of pre- 
ceding the ladies upon the scaffold. One after 
another they ascended the staircase, and in pass- 
ing by they greeted the princess with the same 
deep bow that would have been given at court. 
And Madame Elizabeth thanked them with a 
smile that was not of this world. 

When the heads of the twelve gentlemen had 
fallen, the bodies laid on one side, and the scaffold 
cleansed a little from blood, the ladies’ turn 
came. Every one of them asked the favor of 
embracing Princess Elizabeth, and, with the kiss 
which she pressed upon their lips, a heavenly joy 
seemed to spring up in their hearts. With smiles 
they ascended the scaffold, with smiles they placed 
their heads beneath the axe. 

The lust of the ladies, the Marchioness de 
Crussol d’Amboise, had received the parting kiss 
and ascended the steps of the guillotine. Only 
Elizabeth and Toulan now remained at the foot. 

“Fidele,” whispered Elizabeth in gentle tones, 
“ I shall soon be with my brother and my sister. 


17 


258 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Give me your hand, my brother. You shall con- 
duct me to death, and I will give you my hand 
above, at the opening of the new life, and conduct 
you to Marie Antoinette. ‘ Sister,’ I will say to 
her, ‘ this is the one true and good heart which 
beat on earth for you, and I bring it to you that 
you may rejoice in it in heaven.’ Toulan, there 
is only one title of honor for all men, and that is 
FidMe. It is sanctioned even by the word of 
God: ‘Be thou faithful unto death, and I will 
give thee a crown of life.’ ” 

Just at that moment the axe rattled, there was 
a muffled sound, and the head of the Marchioness 
Crussol d’Amboise fell into the basket. 

“ Elizabeth Capet, it is your turn — come up ! ” 
“ I come.” 

She ascended the scaffold. Arrayed, as she 
was, in this white robe, her transparent face was 
like that of an angel. It seemed to Toulan as if 
her foot no longer rested on the earth. He fol- 
lowed her to the scaffold ; and as she was about to 
ascend the steps, he laid his hand upon her arm. 

“ Princess, I have a secret to impart to you. I 
have promised with a solemn oath that my lips 
should disclose it to no mortal ; but you, Eliza- 
beth, belong already to the immortals, the peace 
of God illumines your brow, and I want you to 
have one last joy before you ascend into heaven. 
This is my secret : The boy who is confined in 
the Temple is not the dauphin. I have fulfilled 
the promise which I gave the queen. I have 
saved the dauphin, and he is now in Yendee, 
under the safe care of Prince de Conde.” 

“ Elizabeth Capet, come up, or we must bring 
you by force.” 

“ I am coming. Farewell, Fidffle ! you have 
spoken the truth.; you have given me a last joy ! 
I thank you ; now kiss my lips ; give your sister 
a parting kiss, Fidele. Farewell, my brother ! ” 
He touched the lips that were illumined with a 
sad smile — “ Farewell, imy sister ! ” 


She ascended the steps, and, reaching the scaf- 
fold, she calmly laid aside the veil, and prepared 
her toilet for death. 

At the foot of the scaffold Toulan remained 
upon his knees ; his great eyes, which had been 
directed to Elizabeth, beamed with rapture, and 
in his heart there were words written with a fin- 
ger of diamond — words hallowed and comforting, 
that Toulan read in meditation and prayer: 
“ Love vanquishes death ; love is victorious even 
over life ; love, which is the highest friendship, 
and friendship, which is the highest love, rise so 
far above every thing earthly, that thou must 
surrender every thing for them, every thing which 
thou hast valued upon earth, every thing which 
has stood to thee in the most tender relations. 
In this love thou hast lived, and in this love thou 
shalt die and ascend into heaven.” 

“ Toulan, come up ! Do you not hear us call- 
ing you ? Do you not see that Elizabeth Capet 
has made place for you ? ” 

He had not seen when the noble head of the 
princess fell into the basket, he had not heard 
the executioner call him ; he had only read in 
his heart the revelation of love. 

He ascended the steps, and his countenance 
beamed with the same light of rapture which had 
surrounded Elizabeth’s brow. 

A piercing scream came from the crowd, as a 
young wife fell senseless into the arms of her 
neighbors, while the boy, who stood near her 
extended his hands to the scaffold, and called, 
loudly, “ Father, dear father ! ” 

Toulan did not turn to them. No earthly sor- 
row had place in this soul, which had overcome 
pain, and received eternal joy into itself. 

Calmly he laid his head beneath the axe. “God 
is love,” he said, aloud. “ He that abideth in 
love, abideth in God, and God — ” 

The axe descended, and left Toulan’s last worde 
unspoken. 


BOOK YI 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

WITHOUT NAME AND RANK. 

The Prince de Conde was walking with quick 
steps up and down his apartment. His brow was 
cloudy, his eyes wore a sad look, and at times he 
raised his hand, as if he would remove a veil that 
darkened his sight. 

“ It must be,” he said, decisively, after a while. 
“Yes, it must be ; I see no other means of saving 
him from the snares of his enemies and friends. 
He must leave, and that at once.” 

He walked hastily to the table, pilled the bell 
violently, and ordered the servant who came in to 
bring the boy who came yesterday to him. 

A few minutes later, the door opened, and a 
boy of ten or twelve years, with great blue eyes, 
fair hair, graceful form, and delicate complexion, 
came into the room. At his appearance the 
Prince de Conde seemed deeply moved. He hast- 
ened with open arms to meet the boy, pressed 
' him closely to his heart, and kissed his fair hair 
i and eyes. 

“ Welcome, a thousand times welcome ! ” he 
said, with trembling voice. “ How long have I 
desired to see this moment, and how happy I am 
that it has come at last ! You are saved, you are 
restored to freedom, to life, and there is in store 
for you, I hope, a great and brilliant future ! ” 

“ Then I shall have to thank you for it, my 
cousin,” said the boy, with his sweet, resonant 
voice. “ You have released me from the dreadful 
prison, and I thank you for life. I am glad, too. 


that I see you at last, for I wanted so much to 
express my thanks, and every evening I have 
prayed to God to grant me the happiness of greet- 
ing my dear cousin, the Prince de Conde.” 

The joyous light had long since faded from the 
face of the prince, and a cloud was gathering on 
his brow, as, with a timid, searching look, he 
glanced around, as if he feared that some one be- 
sides himself might hear the words of the boy. 

“ Do not call me your cousin,” he said, softly ; 
and even his voice was changed, and became cold 
and husky. 

The boy fixed his great blue eyes with an ex- 
pression of astonishment on the gloomy counte- 
nance of the Prince de Conde. 

“You are no longer glad to see me here? 
Is it disagreeable to you for me to call you my 
cousin ? ” 

The prince made no answer at once, but walked 
up and down with great strides, and then stood 
still before the boy, who had calmly observed his 
impatient motions. 

“Let us sit down,” said the Prince de Conde-— 
“ let us sit down and talk.” 

He gave his hand to the boy, led him to the 
divan, and took his own place upon an easy-chair, 
directly opposite to the child. 

“ Let us talk,” he repeated. “ I should like to 
know, in the first place, whether you have a good 
memory, for I have been told that your head has 
suffered, and that you have no recollection of the 
past.” 

A gentle, sad smile played around the lips of 
the boy. 


260 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


“ I have been silent about the past, as I have 
been commanded to,” he said, “but I have not 
forgotten it.” 

“ Do you remember your mother ? ” asked the 
prince. 

The boy trembled convulsively, a glowing red 
passed over his cheeks, and a deep paleness fol- 
lowed. 

“ Monsieur,” he asked, with a tremulous voice, 
“ would it be possible for me to forget my dear 
mamma queen? — ^my mamma queen who loved 
her little Louis Charles so much ? Ah, sir, you 
would not have asked that if you had known how 
much pain you give me.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the prince, embar- 
rassed. “ I see you remember. But let me try 
you once more. Will you tell me what happened 
to you after being taken away from your cruel 
foster-parents ? What were those people’s 
names, and what were they ? ” 

“ My foster-parents, or my tormentors rather, 
were called Mr. and Mistress Simon. The man had 
been a cobbler, but afterward he was superinten- 
dent and turnkey in the Temple, and when I was 
taken away from my mamma, sister, and aunt, I 
had to live with these dreadful people.” 

“ Did you fare badly there ? ” 

“ Very badly, sir ; I was scolded and ill-treated, 
and the worst of all was that they wanted to com- 
pel me to sing ribald songs about my mamma 
queen.” 

“ But you did nof sing these songs ? ” asked 
the Prince de Conde. 

The eyes of the boy flamed. “No,” he said, 
proudly, “ I did not sing them. They might have 
beaten me to death. I would rather have died 
than have done it.” 

The prince nodded approvingly. “And how 
did you escape from these people ? ” he asked. 

“You know. Prince de Conde,” answered the 
boy, smiling. “ It is you who helped me escape.” 

“ Tell me about this matter a little,” said the 
prince, “ and how you have fared since then, I 
contributed, as you suppose, to your release, but 
I was not present in person. How did you escape 
from the Temple ? ” 


“ I was put into a basket with soiled clothes^ 
which Mistress Simon was taking away with her 
from the Temple. This basket she gave to a 
washerwoman who was waiting for us at the 
Macon gate. She had a little donkey-cart in 
readiness there, the basket was put into it, and 
went on to a village, the name of which I do not 
know. There we stopped; I was taken out of 
the basket and carried into a house, where we re- 
mained a few hours to rest and change our 
clothes.” 

“ We ? Whom do you mean by we ? ” 

“ Me and the supposed washerwoman,” replied 
the boy. “ This woman was, however, no other 
than M. de Jarjayes, whom I knew long ago, and 
who, with Fidele — I should say, with Toulan — ^had 
thought out and executed the plan of my escape. 
M. de Jarjayes changed his clothes, as did I also, 
and after remaining concealed in the house all 
day, in the evening we took a carriage and rode 
all night. On the next day we remained con- 
cealed in some house, and in the night we contin- 
ued our journey.” 

“ Did he tell you where you were going ? ” 

“ Jarjayes told me that the Prince de Cond^ was 
my protector and deliverer, that the magnanimous 
prince had furnished the necessary money, and 
that I should remain concealed in one of his 
palaces till the time should arrive to acknowledge 
me publicly. Till then, said M. de Jarjayes to me, 
I was never to speak of the past, nor disclose a 
single word about any thing that concerned my- 
self or my family. He told me that if I did not 
follow his instructions literally, I should not only 
be brought back to Simon, but I should have to 
bear the blame of causing the death of my sister 
Therese and my aunt Elizabeth. You can under 
stand, my prince, that after that I was dumb.” 

“Yes. I understand. Where did M. de Jar 
jayes carry you? ” 

“ To one of the palaces of the Prince de Conde 
in loyal and beautiful Vendee. Ah, it was very 
delightful there, and there were very pleasant 
people about me. The story was that I was a 
nephew of the prince, and that on account of im- 
paired health, I was obliged to go into the coun- 


WITHOUT NAME AND RANK. 


261 


try and must be tended with great care. I had a 
preceptor there who gave me instruction, and 
sometimes the brave General Charette came to the 
palace on a visit. He was always very polite to 
me, and showed me all kinds of attention. One 
day he asked me to walk with him in the park. 

I did so, of course, and just as we entered a dark 
allee he fell upon his knee, called me majesty, 
said he knew very well that I was the King of 
France, and that the noble and loyal Prince de 
Conde had rescued me from prison.” 

“ The devil ! ” muttered the prince to himself, 
“ our dear friends are always our worst enemies.” 

The boy paid no attention to the words of 
Cond4, and went on : “ The general conjured me 
to confess to him that I was the son of King 
Louis, and I should' follow him, remain with his 
little army, which would acknowledge me at once, 
and proclaim me King of France.” 

“ And what did you answer ? ” asked Conde, 
eagerly. 

“ My lord,” replied the boy, with proud, grave 
mien, “ I told you that I gave my word to M. de 
Jarjayes to divulge nothing till you should tell 
me that the right time had arrived. I could 
therefore confess nothing to Charette, and told 
him that he had fallen into a great error, and that 
I have and can lay claim to no other honor’ 
than of being the nephew of the Prince de Conde.” 

“You said that?” asked Conde, in amazement. 

The boy raised his head with a quick move- 
ment, and something of the proud and fiery na- 
ture of Louis XIY. flashed in his eyes. 

“ I did not know then,” he rephed, “ that my 
relationship to the Prince de Conde was not agree- 
able to him.” 

The prince looked troubled and perplexed, and 
dropped his eyes before the piercing gaze of the 
boy. “ Go on, if I may venture to ask you,” he 
said, softly. “What did General Charette do, 
when you repelled him ? ” 

“First he implored, and wept, and conjured me 
to trust him, and to lay aside my incognito before 
him, the truest and best of royalists. But as I 
continued steadfast, and disclosed nothing, he 
became angry at length, pushed me away from 


him, threatened me with his fist, swore he would 
have his revenge on those who had deceived him, 
and declared that I was no Bourbon, for the son 
of my fathers would not be so weak and cowardly 
as to conceal his name and lineage.” 

“ And you kept silent, in spite of this de- 
mand ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord, I kept silent ; and, notwith- 
standing his pain and grief, I left him in the be- 
lief that he had deceived himself, or rather, that 
he had been deceived.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Cond6, “ it is plain that you have 
been steeled in the school of suffering, and that 
the years of misfortune like yours must each be 
reckoned double, for, in spite of your twelve years, 
you have acted like a man ! ” 

“ My lord,” replied the boy, proudly, “ the 
Bourbons attain their majority at fifteen, and at 
that age they may, according to the law of France, 
become independent sovereigns. They ought, 
therefore, to begin to learn young. That was the 
opinion of Queen Marie Antoinette, who taught 
me to read in my fifth year. You, my lord, have, 
in your magnanimity, done every thing to make 
me able to conform to the laws of my house, if 
it shall please God that the son of my dear un 
fortunate father should one day ascend the va- 
cant throne of the Bourbons. During these two 
years which I have spent in concealment in your 
palace in Yendee, you have laid a strong and firm 
foundation, on which the superstructure of my 
life may rest. I have, thanks to the excellent 
teachers you have given me, had an opportunity 
to learn much, and to recall much which I had 
forgotten during the years before my release from 
imprisonment.” 

“Your teachers inform me that your industry 
was unceasing, and that you learned more in 
months than some do in years. You are familiar 
with several languages, and, besides, have been in- 
structed, as I desired, in the art of war and in 
mathematics.” 

“ In the studies of kings and soldiers,” replied 
the boy, with a proud smile. 

“ I fear that you will prove not to have prose- 
cuted those studies with a view to their use among 


262 


MAEIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


soldiers,” said Conde, with a sigh. “Your pros- 
pects are very dark — yes, darker even than when 
you left the Temple. These two years have made 
your condition more perilous. It was fortunate 
that you could spend them in solitude and se- 
crecy, and be able to finish your education, and it 
would be a great blessing to you to be able to go 
on with your quiet studies for some years longer. 
But your enemies had sought you without rest ; 
they were on your track, and had I left you there 
any longer, you would have been found some day 
stabbed or shot in the park. The steward in- 
formed me that all kinds of suspicious people had 
gathered in the neighborhood of the palace and 
the garden, and I conjecture that they were the 
emissaries of your enemies. On this I took you 
away from that place, and have brought you here 
for your greater safety. Now allow me one ques- 
tion. Do you know who your enemies are ? ” 

“ I think I know them,” replied Louis Charles, 
with a sad smile. “ My enemies are the self-same 
men who brought my father and my mother to 
the scaffold, destroyed the throne, and in its place 
gave France a red cap. My enemies are the re- 
publicans, who now rule in this land, and whose 
great object must, of course, be to put me out of 
the way, for my life is their death ! France will 
one day be tired of the red cap, and will restore 
the throne to him to whom it belongs, so soon as 
it is certain that he who is entitled to the crown, 
is living to wear it.” 

“ And who do you suppose is justified in wear- 
ing the crown of France ? ” 

“You ask as if you did not know that I am 
the only son and heir of the murdered King of 
France.” 

“ The only son, but not the only heir. Your 
inheritance will be contested ; and even if France 
should transform herself from a republic to a 
monarchy, every attempt possible will be made to 
drive you, the son of Louis XYI., from the throne, 
and put the crown on the head of another.” 

“ Sir, if monarchy is uppermost again, the 
crown belongs to me. Who, in that case, would 
venture to contend with me for it ? ” 

“ Your enemies ! Not those whom you have 


just named, but the other half of your enemies, 
of whose existence you have no suspicion, it 
seems — your enemies, the royalists.” 

“ How so ? ” cried Louis Charles, in amaze- 
ment. “ Do you call the royaUsts my enemies ? ” 

“ Yes, and they are so, your powerful, defiant, 
and untiring enemies. Do you not see that even 
here in this room I do not dare to give you the 
title that is your due, for fear that the walls may 
have ears and increase the danger which threatens 
you? I will now name to you the greatest of 
your enemies — the Count de Provence.” 

“ How ! my uncle, the brother of my father, he 
my enemy ? ” 

“ He is your enemy, as he was the enemy of 
your mother. Believe me, young man, it is not 
the people who have made the revolution in 
France ; it is the princes who have done it. The 
Count de Provence, the Count d’ Artois, and the 
Duke d’Orleans — they are the chief revolution- 
ists ; they it is who have put fire to the throne ; 
they it is who have sown the libels and lampoons 
broadcast over France, and made the name of 
Marie Antoinette odious. They did it out of 
hate, out of revenge, and out of ambition. Queen 
Marie Antoinette had won her husband over to 
the policy of Austria, and in this way had set 
herself in opposition to the Count de Provence, 
and the whole royal family. The count never 
forgave her for this, and he will never forgive 
you for being the son of your mother. The Count 
de Provence, as he now styles himself, is your 
sworn enemy, and will do all he can to bring you 
to ruin ; he is ambitious, and his goal is, to be 
the King of France ! ” 

“ King of France ? The Count de Provence, 
the brother of the king, wants to be his succes- 
sor, when I, the son of the king, am alive and 
demand my inheritance ? ” 

“ Your demand will not be acknowledged : 
they will declare that you are an impostor and a 
deceiver. Ah, the Count de Provence is a selfish 
and a hard character. He means to make his 
own way, and if you put hinderances in it, he 
will put you out of his path, without compassion 
and without remorse ; trust me for knowing this, 


WITHOUT NAME AND RANK. 


263 


who for three years have been in the immediate 
neighborhood of the prince. I was afraid to im- 
part the plan of your escape to the princes, and, 
after you were released, I was silent, for a secret 
is only safe. when a very few are conscious of it. 
But after the news came last year from Paris, 
that the boy who had been placed as your sub- 
stitute in the Temple had died, after a long sick- 
ness, I ventured to inform the Count de Lille 
about the real facts. I told him that I believed 
that information I had received might be relied 
upon, that King Louis XVII. had been released 
from the Temple by true and devoted servants, 
and was then in a place of safety. Would you 
like to know what reply the count made ? ” 

“I pray you, tell me,” responded Louis Charles, 
with a sigh. 

“ He answered me, ‘ I advise you, cousin, not 
to put any confidence in such idle stories, and 
not to be duped by any sly rogues. My unfor- 
tunate little nephew died in the Temple — that is 
a fact acknowledged by the republic, universally 
believed, and denied by no one. After long suf- 
ferings the son has fallen as a new victim to the 
bloodthirsty republicans, and we are still wear- 
ing mourning for our deceased nephew. King 
Louis XVII. And should any wise-head happen 
on the thought of making the dead boy come to 
life again, I will be the first to disown him and 
hold him as an impostor.’ Those were the words 
of the count, and you will now confess that I am 
right in calling him your enemy, and in not dar- 
ing to communicate to him the secret of your 
release ? ” 

“I grant you,” replied the prince, sadly, “I 
would rather bury the secret forever.” 

“ Now, hear me further. A few weeks ago the 
prince summoned me, and I saw on his sinister 
face and in his flashing eyes that he must have 
received some unwelcome tidings. He did not 
make me wait long for the confirmation of my 
conjectures. With a sharp, cutting voice he 
asked me what kind of a nephew of mine that was 
whom I was educating at my palace in Vendee. 
General de Charette had given him information 
through one of his emissaries sending him word 


that the report was current iu Vendee that this 
alleged nephew of mine was the rescued King 
Louis XVII., whom I had helped release from the 
Temple. He, General Charette, had believed it 
at first. He had therefore (so the prince went on 
to say) visited my palace recently, for the pur- 
pose of discovering the supposed young king. 
There he convinced himself that the boy bore no 
resemblance to the little Louis Charles — whom 
he had once seen at the Tuileries — and that he 
certainly was not the son of Louis XVI.” 

“ He told me only too truly that he would 
have his revenge,” whispered the young prince. 

“ He has kept his oath, for he has loudly and 
publicly declared his belief that Louis XVII. died 
iu the Temple, and he has therefore administered 
to his army an oath in favor of King Louis XVIII. 
— that is, the Count de Provence. The count 
himself informed me of this, and then added, 
threateningly, ‘ I advise you, cousin, either to ac- 
knowledge your young nephew, and treat him 
openly, or else put him out of the way. I advise 
you further, not to let yourself be imposed upon 
by adventurers and impostors. It is known that 
you w^ere among the most active adherents of 
Queen Marie Antoinette, and there may be people 
who would work on your credulity and make you 
believe that the poor little Louis Charles was 
really released from the Temple. Do not deny 
that you parted with much money at that time, 
and believed that it w^as wanted for the purpose 
of setting the young King of France free. It was 
a trap, set in view of your loyalty and devotion, 
and you fell into it. But you gave your money 
to no effect, the poor, pitiable king could not be 
saved, and died in the Temple as a prisoner of 
the republic. Take care how you trust any idle 
stories, for, I tell you, you would never bring me 
to put confidence in them. lam now the right- 
ful King of France — I am Louis XVIII. — and I 
am, resolved not only to declare every pretender 
who claims to be Louis XVII. an impostor, but 
to bring him to punishment as a traitor. Mark 
this well, and therefore w^arn this mysterious 
nephew of yours not to venture on playing out 
his comedy, for it will assuredly change into 


264 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


tragedy, and end with his death.* These were 
the words of the Count de Lille, and now you un- 
derstand why I have brought you so suddenly, 
and so secretly, away from my solitary palace and 
have you here.’* 

“ I understand every thing,” said Louis Charles, 
with a sigh ; “ I understand, that it would have 
been better if you had never released me, and I 
had died like my father and mother.” 

“We must postpone the accomplishment of our 
hopes,” said Cond6, sadly, “ for I confess to you, 
there is little to expect from the present, and 
there is no place where you are safe from the 
persecutions and the daggers of your enemies. 
The republicans desire your death as much as the 
royalists. In France, two parties threaten you, 
and would I now risk every thing, carry you to 
some European court and acquaint the sovereign 
of your arrival, and ask for his assistance, I should 
have no credence, for, not the French republic 
alone, but the Count de Lille would protest against 
it, and disavow you before all Europe. It is, 
therefore, absolutely necessary, in order to secure 
you against your enemies, that you should disap- 
pear for a season, and that we patiently await the 
time which shall permit us to bring you back 
upon the scenes.” 

“ Do you believe that time will ever come ? ” 
asked the little prince, with a shake of the head. 

“ I believe it, and, above every thing, I hope 
it,” replied Condo, quickly. “ The greatest diffi- 
culty is to find a place for you to remain where 
you may not be suspected, and wffiere you may be 
safe from assault. To my great regret I cannot 
entertain you here, for my family are too well 
known for me to suddenly acknowledge a legiti- 
mate nephew of your age, and the Count de Lille 
would be the last to believe it. I confess that it 
has cost me a great deal of disquiet and anxious 
thought to find a secure asylum for you.” 

“And do you think you have found one at 
last ? ” asked Louis Charles, indifferently. 

“Yes, I believe so, or rather, I know that I 
have found one. You must be taken to a place 
which no one can suspect as that where you would 
be hkely to be.” 


“ And what place is this ? ” 

“ It is called Mayencc.” 

The boy, who had sat with downcast eyes, per- 
haps in order not to let some tears be seen, 
looked quickly up, and the greatest astonishment 
was depicted in his expressive features. 

“ Mayence ? ” he asked. “ Is not that a fortress 
on the Rhine which the troops of the French 
republic have taken possession of ? ” 

“Yes; and the commandant of Mayence, the 
head of the troops, is General Kleber, one of the 
bravest and noblest soldiers of the French re- 
public.” 

“ And you, you want to send me to this General 
Kleber ? Ah, my prince, that would be thrusting 
me, for the purpose of rescuing me from persecu- 
tion, into the very crater of the volcano.” 

“ It is not so bad as you suppose, my young 
friend. General Kleber is at heart a good 
and true royalist, and although he serves the 
republic, he does so because he is first of all 
a soldier, a soldier of his country, and because 
his country now has pressing need of soldiers to 
defend the honor and glory of France. I have 
sent a trustworthy man to General Kleber to 
impart this secret to him, and to ask him for 
protection, and a place of refuge for you. Gen- 
eral Kleber is ready to grant both, and he has 
sent his adjutant to Coblentz to escort his 
nephew to Mayence. You are that nephew, and 
if you give your consent, you will set out at once 
and go to Mayence.” 

“And if I do not give my consent?” asked 
Louis Charles, with a proud, flashing look. 

“ I confess,” said Conde, with a shrug — “ I 
confess that I am not prepared for that contin- 
gency, and cannot on the instant grasp all the 
unfortunate results which would ensue on your 
refusal.” 

“ Be calmed, Cond4, 1 do not refuse. I have 
only this one thing to care for, to cause no 
danger, and bring nothing disagreeable to you, 
for I see that they are in store for you if I do not 
disappear again from view. The son of the king 
vanished from sight, to appear as the nephew of 
Conde ; and now the nephew of Conde is to vanish, 


WITHOUT NAME AND RANK. 


265 


to emerge as the nephew of General Kleber. Ah, 
who knows hut I may yet be the nephew of Si- 
mon the cobbler, preparatory to my last appear- 
ance on the guillotine ? ” 

“ I hope, on the contrary, that on the day when 
France shall rise again, you will rise too, the ac- 
knowledged son of Louis XYL, and the heir of 
the throne of France. At present the republic 
has sway, and there is no hope of an immediate 
change. But that will not last always ; and in 
the decisive hour, when the monarchy and the 
republic come to their last great battle for exist- 
ence — at that hour you must appear upon the 
field, must lift the lilies high in the air, and sure- 
mon the royalists to your side in the name of 
God, and of the king your father.” 

“ And what ! my uncle, the Count de Provence, 
then declares me to be an impostor ? ” 

“ Then you must publicly and solemnly appeal 
to France, lay the proofs of your lineage before 
the nation, summon unimpeachable witnesses, 
and demand your throne of the French nation. 
And believe me, if the heart of France is com- 
pelled to choose between you and the Count de 
Provence, it will not choose him, for the count 
has never possessed the heart of the people, and 
God is just.”, 

“ God is just,” replied Louis Charles, sadly — 
“ God is just, and yet the King and Queen of 
France have perished on the guillotine, and their 
brother calls himself King of France, while the 
son of Louis XYL must find shelter ,with a gen- 
eral of that French republic w^hich was the ene- 
my of my parents.” 

“ It is true,” said Conde, with a sigh, “ it is 
very difficult at times to see the justice of God, 
but we must always hope to see it, and at length 
it wdll reveal itself in all its glory. And the hour 
of judgment will come for you. Await it stead- 
fastly and with patience, and when it is come, 
call on me, and I will not neglect your summons, 
but will support you, and will give you my recog- 
nition. I have all the documents which relate to 
your flight, all the testimony given by those who 
were engaged in assisting you, and besides this, a 
detailed account of your flight, subscribed with 


my name, and stamped with my seal. I have 
further the testimony of the teachers who gave 
you instruction at my palace of Chambord, and 
the keeper of the palace recorded the day on 
which you arrived. I am ready to give you these 
papers, if you will swear to me that you will not 
misuse them, but give them to General Kleber, 
that he may preserve them for you.” 

“ I swear to you that I will do so,” said the 
prince, solemnly. 

Conde handed to him a small and closely-rolled 
package of papers. “ This contains your future,” 
he said, “ and out of these papers I hope a crown 
will grow for you. Till then let the republic pre- 
serve them for you. General Kleber is expecting 
you, and his adjutant is waiting for you in the 
next room. Permit me to give you one more 
piece of advice: remain steadfast, resist all 
tempters who would beguile you with pleasant 
words to acknowledge yourself King of France. 
For be persuaded these tempters are the emissa- 
ries of your enemies, and if you should acknowl- 
edge to them that you are King Louis XYII., 
you would be writing your own death-warrant. 
The balls which I trust will spare the nephew of 
General Kleber would certainly pierce the heart 
of the nephew of Count de Lille. Continue to 
deny it as you denied it to General Charette. 
Swear to me that you will faithfully keep the 
secret of your lineage till I release you from the 
oath by which I now close your lips, and tell you 
that the hour of action and of disclosures is 
come ; swear it to me, in view of the fidelity 
which I have shown to you, and which I shall al- 
ways be ready to show.” 

“You have saved my life,” said Louis Charles, 
solemnly. “My life, therefore, belongs to you, 
and I give it into your hands in swearing, by the 
memory of my dear parents, and especially my 
noble and proud-spirited mother. Queen Marie 
Antoinette, that I will faithfully and truly keep 
the secret of my parentage^ and not feel myself 
justified in revealing it to the world, till you, the 
Prince de Conde, shall have given me permission, 
and empowered me to do so.” 

“ I thank you,” said Conde, “ for I am now un- 


266 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


concerned about your immediate future. General 
Kleber and the French republic will protect you, 
for the present, from the dangerous pretender. 
Count Lille, and, in God’s providence, I trust 
there will come a day when France will be pre- 
pared to raise the son of its kings to the throne 
w'hich belongs to him. Let us hope for this day, 
and be persuaded that I shall neglect nothing 
which will help bring it about. And now, as we 
part, I bow my knee to you, my young king ; I 
now acknowledge you solemnly as the son of my 
w^ell-beloved cousin. King Louis XVI., and the 
rightful heir of the throne of the lilies. May the 
spirits of the murdered royal couple, may God 
and the ear of my king take note of the oath 
which I now pronounce. I swear that I will 
never acknowledge any other prince as King of 
France, so long as you, King Louis XVII., are 
among the living. I swear that if I ever break 
this vow, and acknowledge another King of 
France, you, Louis XYIL, may accuse me of high- 
treason, and condemn me to the death which a 
traitor deserves. I swear that I will subject my- 
self to this death-penalty without opposition and 
complaint. And this I swear by Almighty God, 
and by the memory of your royal parents, whose 
spirits are wdth us at this hour.” 

“ And I, Prince de Conde, I accept your oath,” 
said Louis Charles, gravely. “ I go away now 
into exile, but I carry your oath with me as my 
hope for the future, and may God grant that I 
shall never be compelled to remind you of it, 
but that you will faithfully and truly keep it. 
Fare you well ! My crown rests in your heart.” 

“ And in these papers, sire. Deliver them to 
the brave General Kleber, and he will preserve 
them as his most sacred and cherished posses- 
sion.” 

He kissed the hand of the prince, which was 
reached out for the papers, and then hastened to 
summon the ofiBcer, who was waiting in the ad- 
joining room for the nephew of General Kleber, 
having no suspicion what an important mission 
was intrusted to him. 

But General Kleber knew the secret better, 
and although not a word and not an action dis- 


closed it, yet the gentle friendliness, the mild look^ 
the subdued smile with which the general received 
his young nephew in Mayence, testified that he 
was familiar with the secret, and knew how to 
guard it. 

In Mayence, under the care of General Kleber, 
his nephew, Louis, as he called him, remained 
during the subsequent time, and very soon gained 
the heart of his uncle, and was his inseparable 
friend by day and by night. They slept in one 
room, they ate at one table. The nephew accom- 
panied his uncle at all parades and military exer- 
cises ; and, in order to make his favorite a skil- 
fu soldier, the general undertook the duties of 
teacher, gave him instruction in the art of war, 
and taught him the more familiar duties of a sol- 
dier’s life. The nephew comprehended readily, 
and pursued zealously the studies which his uncle 
assigned him. The pains and sorrows of the past 
were forgotten, and only the recollections of his 
happy childhood rested silently at the bottom of 
his heart like pearls at the bottom of the sea. 

“ When shall I arise from this estate ? When 
will the crown of the future be linked with these 
pleasant recollections of the past? ” These were 
the questions which the growing boy repeated to 
himself every morning and every evening. But 
his lips never uttered them ; he never gave the 
slightest indication that he was any thing else 
than the nephew of General Kleber. The French 
garrison of Mayence considered him to be so, and 
no one thought of asking whether he bore any 
other name. It sufficed that he was the nephew 
of the noble, valiant, and heroic General Kleber. 
That was the name and rank of the little prince. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE BARON DE RICHEMONT. 

Thus passed weeks, months, and even years, 
and on the gloomy horizon of France arose a new 
constellation, and from the blood-spotted, corpse- 
strewn soil of the French republic sprang an 


THE BARON DE RICHEMONT. 


267 


armed warrior — a solitary one! — but one to 
whom millions were soon to bow, and who, like 
the divinity of battles, was to control the desti- 
nies of nations and of princes. This one solitary 
man was General Bonaparte, the same young man 
who in the first bloody days of the French Revo- 
lution beheld the storm at the Tuileries, and ex- 
pressed his regret to his companion — the actor 
Talma — that the king did not command his sol- 
diers to mow down the canaille with grape-shot. 
The young lieutenant of that day, who had been 
the friend of the actor, dividing his loaf and his 
dinner with him, had now become General Bona- 
parte. And this general was serving the same 
people which as a lieutenant he had wanted to 
mow down with grape-shot. At the siege of Tou- 
lon, in the close contests with the allies against 
the republic and in the Italian campaign of 1794, 
Bonaparte had so distinguished himself that the 
eyes of the French government were already 
directed to him, and no one could be surprised at 
the action of General Beauharnais’ widow, the 
fair Josephine, in giving her hand to the young 
and extraordinary man. This marriage had not 
only brought happiness to Bonaparte, but it satis- 
fied his ambition. Josephine v/as the friend of 
Barras and Tallien, the chief magistrates of the 
republic at that time, and through her influence 
the young Bonaparte was sent to Italy to assume 
the chief command of the French army there. A 
general of twenty-six years to have the direction 
of an army, whose four corps were commanded by 
Generals Massena, Augereau, Serrurier, and La 
Harpe ! ' The father of Junot, the late Duke de 
Abrantes, wrote at that time to his son, who was 
with the French army in Italy: “Who is this 
General Bonaparte ? Where has he served ? 
Does anybody know any thing about him ? ” 
And Junot, who was then the faithful friend and 
the admirer of Bonaparte, replied to his father : 
“ You ask me who General Bonaparte is. I 
might answer, in order to know who he is, you 
must be he. I can only say to you that, so far as 
I am able to judge him, he is one of those men 
with whom Nature groans, and only brings forth 
in a century.” 


Had Junot not replied to his father, the 
deeds of the young general would soon have done 
so. Presently, in all France, in all Italy, yes, in 
all Europe, there was not a man who could ask, 
“ Who is General Bonaparte ? ” His name was 
in every mouth, and the soldiers adored the man 
who had stood victoriously at their head at Lodi 
and Milan, and borne the banner forward amid 
the murderous shower of balls at the bridge of 
Arcoli. Diplomatists and statesmen wondered at 
him who had taken Venice, and compelled proud 
and hated Austria to make peace with the French 
republic, which had brought Marie Antoinette to 
the scaffold. The republicans and the Directory 
of the republic feared Bonaparte, because they 
recognized an enemy of the republic in him, and 
dreaded his growing power and increasing renown. 

On this account General Bonaparte was re- 
called from the Italian army after peace had been 
made with Austria, and he returned to Paris. 
Still he was so feared that the Directory of the 
republic, in order to remove him, and at the same 
time to give occupation to his active spirit and 
his splendid abilities, proposed to Bonaparte to 
go with an army to Egypt, and extend the glory 
of France to the distant East. 

Bonaparte entered with all his fiery nature into 
this idea which Barras and Talleyrand had sought 
to inveigle him into, and all his time, his thoughts, 
and his energies were directed to the one purpose, 
to fit himself out with every thing that should be 
needful to bring to a victorious end a long and 
stubborn war in a foreign land. A strong fleet 
w'as collected, and Bonaparte, as the commander 
of the many thousands who were to go to Egypt 
under him, called to his aid the most skilful, val- 
iant, and renowned generals of the French army. 

It could not fail that one of the first and most 
eminent of these was General Kleber, and, of 
course, his young adjutant and nephew Louis ac 
companied him. 

On the 19th of April, 1798, the French fleet 
left the harbor of Toulon, and sailed toward the 
East, for, as Bonaparte said, “ Only in the Orient 
are great realms and great deeds — in the Orient, 
where six hundred millions of men live.” 


268 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


But these six hundred railli 9 ns have no army 
such as the French is, no commander like Bona- 
parte, no generals like Murat, Junot, Desaix, and, 
above all, Kleber. 

Kleber was the second in command. He shared 
his perils, he shared his victories, and with him 
was united his nephew Louis, a youth of fourteen 
years, who, from his tall, slim figure, his gravity, 
and his ready understanding, would have passed 
at least for a youth of eighteen, and who, trained 
in the school of misfortune, belonged to those 
early-matured natures which destiny has steeled, 
that they may courageously contend with and gain 
the victory over destruction. 

It was on the morning of the 2d of J uly. The 
French army had disembarked, and stood not far 
from Alexandria, on the ancient sacred soil of 
Egypt. Whatever was done must be done quick- 
ly, for Nelson was approaching with a fleet, pre- 
pared to contend with the French for the posses- 
sion of Alexandria. Should the city not be taken 
before the arrival of the English fleet, the victory 
would be doubtful. Bonaparte knew this well. 
“ Fortune gives ns three days’ time at the most,” 
cried he, “and if we do not use them we are 
lost!” 

But he did use them ! With fearful rapidity 
the disembarkation of the troops was effected; 
with fearful rapidity the French army arranged 
itself on Egyptian soil in three divisions, under 
Morand, Bon, and Kleber. Above them all was 
he whose head had conceived the gigantic under- 
taking, he whose heroic spirit comprehended the 
whole. This was Bonaparte. 

After inspecting all the army and issuing his 
orders, he rode up the hill in company wdth his 
staff to the pillar of Pompey, in order to observe 
from that point the course of events. The army 
was advancing impetuously, and soon the city 
built by Alexander the Great must open its gates 
to his successor, Bonaparte the Great. 

After a short respite, the array advanced far- 
ther into the land of the pyramids. “Remem- 
ber,” cried Bonaparte, to his soldiers, pointing to 
those monuments — “ remember that forty centu- 
ries look down upon you.” 


And the pyramids of the great plain of Cairo 
beheld the glorious deeds and victories of the 
French army, beheld the overthrow of the Egyp- 
tian host. The Nile murmured with its blood-red 
waves the death-song of the brave Mamelukes, 
and the “ forty centuries ” which looked down 
from the pyramids were obliterated by the glorious 
victories that Bonaparte gained at the foot of 
those sacred monuments. 

A new epoch was to begin. The old epoch 
was buried for Egypt, and out of the ruins of 
past centuries a new Egypt was to be born, an 
Egypt which was to serve France and be trib- 
utary to it as a vassal. 

This was Bonaparte’s plan, and he did every 
thing to bring it to completion. He passed from 
battle to battle, from victory to victory, and, 
after conquering Egypt and taking up his resi- 
dence in Cairo, he at once began to organize the 
newly-won country, and to introduce to the idle 
and listless East the culture of the earnest and pro- 
gressive West. But Egypt would not accept the 
treasures of culture at the hand of its conqueror. 
It rose again and again in rebellion against the 
power that held it down, and hurled its flaming 
torches of revenge against the hated enemy. A 
token of this may be seen in the dreadful revolt 
at Cairo, which began in the night of the 20th of 
October, and, after days of violence, ended with . 
the cruel cutting down of six thousand Mame- 
lukes. A proof of it may be seen in the con- 
stantly renewed attacks of swarms of Bedouins 
and Mamelukes on the French army. These 
hordes advanced even to the gates of Cairo, and 
terrified the population, which had at last taken 
refuge beneath the foot of the conqueror. But 
Bonaparte succeeded in subjugating the hostile 
Bedouin tribes, as he had already subjected the 
population of the cities. He sent one of hi-a ad- 
jutants, General Croisier, with a corps of brave 
soldiers, into the desert to meet the emir of the 
hostile tribes, and Croisier won respect for the 
commands of his general. He succeeded in tak- 
ing captive the whole body. A fearful sentence 
was inflicted on them. Before the eyes of their 
wives, their children, and their mothers, all the 


THE BARON DE RICHEMONT. 


269 


I men of the tribe, more than five hundred in num- 
1 ber, were killed and their heads put into sacks. 
The howling and weeping women and children 
were driven to Cairo. Many perished of hunger 
i on the road, or died beneath the sabre-blows of 
I their enemies ; but more than a thousand suc- 
ceeded in reaching Cairo. They were obliged to 
I encamp upon the great square El Bekir, in the 
heart of Cairo, till the donkeys arrived which 
bore the dreadful spoils of victory in blood-drip- 
I ping bags upon their backs. The whole popula- 
tion of Cairo was summoned to this gigantic 
square, and was obliged to look on while the 
Backs were opened and the bloody heads rolled 
out upon the sacred soil of Egypt. 

I 

After this time quiet reigned for a season. 
Horror had brought the conquered into subjec- 

i tion, and Bonaparte could continue his victorious 

' 

r course. He withdrew to Syria, taking with him 

;i 

I Kleber and Kleber’s young adjutant, the little 
I Louis. He saw the horrors of war ; he was there 
I the son of the Kings of France, w'hen the army 
I of the republic conquered the cities El Arish 
f and Gaza ; he took part by the side of Kleber in 
ihe storming of Jaffa. He was there when the 
j captured Jaffa had to open its gates to the vic- 
tors. He was there when, in the great caravan- 
sary, four thousand Turkish soldiers grounded 
j their arms and surrendered themselves as prison- 
I ers, after receiving the promise that their lives 
should be spared. He was there, too, the son of 
Marie Antoinette, when the unfortunates were 
I driven down to the sea-coast and shot, in order 
that their enemies might be rid of them. He 
I was there, the son of Louis XVI., when Bona- 
I parte visited the pest-house in Jaffa; he walked 
j through the sick-rooms at the side of his uncle 
j Kleber, who noticed how the face of the young 
i man, which had so often been calm in meeting 
death on the battle-field or in the storm of as- 
sault, now quivered, and the paleness of death 
swept over his cheeks. 

“ What was the matter, my son ? ” asked 
Kleber, as he returned home from this celebrated 
' visit to the pest-house. “ Why did you turn pale 
all at once, Louis ? ” ^ 


“General,” responded Louis, perplexed, “I 
know not how to answer.” 

“You ought not to have gone with me to the 
hospital,” said Kleber, shaking his head. “You 
know I did not want you to go at first ; but you 
insisted on it, and begged and implored so long 
that at last I had to yield and let you accompany 
us. But, I confess it myself, it was a dreadful 
sight, these sick people with their swollen bodies 
covered with blood and running sores. I under- 
stand now why you trembled and turned pale — 
you were afraid of this dreadful sickness ? ” 

“ No, general,” answered Louis, softly — “ no, 
I have no fear. Did you not notice that I sprang 
forward and assisted General Bonaparte, when he 
lifted up the poor sick man who lay on the floor 
before the door, and that I helped carry him into 
the room ? ” 

“ I saw it, Louis, and I was much pleased with 
your courage, and was therefore surprised after- 
ward vrhen you turned pale and trembled, and I 
saw tears in your eyes. What agitated you all at 
once so much? ” 

The young man slowly raised his head and 
looked at Kleber with his great blue eyes. 
“ General,” he said, softly, “ I myself do not 
know what agitated me so much. We were both 
standing before the bed of a sick man, to whom 
I handed a pitcher of w^atcr which he begged for 
earnestly. He fixed his great eyes upon me, and 
his quivering lips murmured : ‘ God bless you ! 
all saints and angels protect you ! ’ As he spoke 
these wmrds, there resounded in my heart the 
echo of a time long since past. It seemed to me 
as if suddenly a dark curtain parted, and I looked 
as in a dream at a wondrous, brilliant spectacle. 
I saw a beautiful and dignified woman of princely 
figure, of noble, majestic nature. With her I saw 
two children, a girl and a boy, whom she led by 
the hand, and with whom she walked through a 
long hall which was filled with rows of beds. 
And as she walked there, it seemed as if the sun 
lightened up the dismal hall, and illumined the 
pale faces of the sick ones. They raised them- 
selves up in their beds and extended their thin, 
emaciated hands to the tall lady, and thanked her 


270 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


witli earnest blessings for her visit and her com- 
forting words. There was only one of the pa- 
tients who did not rise, but lay stiff upon his bed 
and moaned and sighed and whispered unintelligi- 
ble words, which no one heeded, because the at- 
tention of all was fixed upon the great visitor. 
But the boy who was walking by the side of the 
tall lady had understood the sobs of the sick one. 
lie left his mother, took the jug which stood upon 
a table between two beds, filled a glass with water 
from it, and held it to the dry, quivering lips of 
the sick one. He drank greedily, and then fixed 
his eyes upon the boy and lisped the words : 
‘ God bless you ! all saints and angels protect you ! ’ 
And all the people repeated aloud ; ‘ God bless 
you, all saints and angels protect you ! ’ The 
dignified lady stooped with a heavenly smile to 
her son, pressed a tender kiss upon his golden 
locks, and repeated the same words aloud. This, 
general, was the fantasy which suddenly appeared 
before my eyes when the patient spoke those 
words to-day. It seemed to me as if I perceived 
all at once a long-silent song of home. I heard 
the wonderful voice of the exalted lady who spoke 
those words. It seemed to me as if I felt the kiss 
which she then imprinted on the head of the five- 
year old boy, felt it to my inmost heart, and it 
glowed therewith the fire of an undying love, and 
shook my whole being, and filled my eyes with 
tears. You will not chide me for that, general, 
for those were the lips of my mother who pressed 
that kiss of blessing on her unhappy son.” 

He ceased, tears choked his utterance, and, as 
if ashamed of his deep emotion, he hid his face in 
his hands. 

General Kleber turned away too, and put his 
hand over his eyes, as though a film had come 
over them. Then, after a long pause he gently 
laid his hand upon the shoulder of the young 
man, who was still sitting with covered face. 

“ Such memories are holy,” he said, “ and I 
honor them, my dear, faithful son. May the 
blessing which then fell from the lips of a woman 
whom I too knew and honored, but whose name 
may never be spoken between us, may it be ful- 
filled to you ! May angels and saints protect you 


when men shall no longer have the power, and 
when fate shall separate you from those who have 
devoted their love and fidelity to you ! ” 

The youth let his hands fall from his face, and 
looked at the general with a startled, searching 
glance. 

“What do you mean, uncle? You do not 
mean to say that — ” 

“That we must part? Yes, my dear nephew, 
that is what I must say,” interrupted Kleber, 
sadly. “ This word has long been burning in my 
soul, and it is necessary that I speak it. Yes, we 
must part, Louis.” 

“ Why, oh why ? ” asked Louis, bitterly. “ Why 
will you too drive me away ? You, the only one 
who loves me a little ! ” 

“ Exactly because I love you — exactly for that 
reason must I separate myself from you. Since 
we came to Egypt you have been sickly, your 
cheeks have become pale. The fulness of your 
limbs has gone, and the dry and hard cough that 
troubles you every morning has long made me 
anxious, as you know. On that account, after all 
the appliances of my physician failed, I applied, 
as you Irnow, to the physician of the commanding 
general, to Corvisart, and he has subjected you to 
a thorough examination.” 

“ It is true,” said Louis, thoughtfully, “he has 
investigated me w^ith the carefulness of a mer- 
chant who is about to buy a slave and means'to 
test him. He made a hearing-trumpet of his ear 
and laid it on my breast, and listened wdiile I had 
to breathe as if I were a volcano. He put his eai 
to my heart, he told me that his father had been 
physician at the French court, and that the mur- 
dered queen had a great deal of confidence in 
him, and then he wondered that my heart beat 
so violently wdiile he told me this.” 

“ And the result of all these investigations is, 
that you must return to Europe, Louis,” said 
Kleber, sadly. “ Corvisart has declared it an un- 
avoidable necessity for your constitution, and the 
command of the physician must be obeyed as if 
it w'ere the command of God. You cannot endure 
the climate of Egypt, so says Corvisart, and if your 
life is not to be shortened and you to be made a 


THE BARON BE RICHEMONT. 


perpetual invalid, you must return to Europe as 
quickly as possible, for only there 'will you recover 
, and grow strong. You see, therefore, Louis, that 
I must separate from you, although it is a sore 
thing for me to do, for I love you as my own son, 
and I have no one in the world who is nearly re- 
I lated to me.” 

“And I, whom else have I in the world?” 
asked Louis, bitterly. “ Who has interest in me 
excepting you? Ah, general, do not drive me 
from you. Believe me, it is better for me if for a 
I few short and happy years I live at your side, and 
then breathe my last sigh in your faithful and 
tender arms, than if I have to wander solitary and 
friendless through the strange, cold world, where 
no one loves me, and where I shall always be sur- 
rounded by enemies, or by those who are indif- 
; ferent. It may be that my body will gain health 
I and strength in the air of Europe, but my heart 
I will always be sick there, for it will lose its home 
i{ when it shall have lost you, my fatherly friend.” 

General Kleber slowly shook his head. “ In 
ij youth one sorrows and forgets it quickly.” 

: “ General, do you say that to me, after seeing 

; me weep in the hospital because the word of a 
I dying man called back the recollection of my ear- 
! liest childhood ? Oh, believe me, my heart for- 
[ gets its sorrows never, and if I must return to 
j France, to Paris, it will seem to me as if I had 
I always to be climbing the hill of Calvary with 
j bloody feet to reach the top where I might perish 
on the cross. For, believe me, general, my whole 
life will be nothing but such a wandering through 
< scenes of pain if you drive me from the refuge 
that your love has offered me. Leave me here, 
|i let me live in secrecy and silence beneath the pin- 
I ions of your love, and do not believe what the 
:j physicians tell you. Man’s life lies in the hands 

'I 

i of God, and if He will sustain it, it is as safe in 
the deserts of Egypt as in Paris, the capital of 
' the world.” * 

“ Because God will sustain your life, Louis, for 
that very reason. He instructs me, through the 
: voice of the physician, what my ’duty is, bids me 
: conquer my own grief, and send the son of my 
1 heart to his distant home. No, Louis, it is a de- 


271 

cided thing, we must part ; you must return to 
France.” 

“ And if it is true,” asked Louis, bitterly, “ if I 
am then really to return to France, why must we 
part ? Why must I return without you ? Why, 
if you really love me, do you not accompany me ? 
I heard you say yesterday that several ships, with 
a part of our troops, were to return to France. 
Why, then, can you not go back with me ? ” 

“Why?” asked Kleber, sadly. “I will tell 
you, Louis : because Bonaparte will not allow it. 
Listen, my son, I will communicate a secret to 
you : there has news come within the last few 
days, the first that we have received for ten 
months. The newspapers which have arrived 
bring very unwelcome intelligence ; they inform 
us that all the advantages gained in Italy by the 
French army have been lost— that France is ar- 
rayed against Austria, Spain, and all the European 
powers — that the French Government is threat- 
ened by internal factions, which threaten to bring 
back the reign of terror. I watched Bonaparte’s 
face as he read these papers, and I saw there 
what he was resolved to do. He will, as soon as 
he shall gain one more great victory, leave Egypt 
and return to France.” 

“ He will not return without you, the faithful- 
est and boldest of his generals. You know well 
that you are called the right-hand man of Bona- 
parte.” 

“ Bonaparte means to show the world that he 
is not only the head, but the right arm too, the 
heart, the foot, the soul of the French army ! 
And because he means to show this, he will re- 
turn alone to France ; only a few of his faithful 
subordinates will accompany him ; the men who 
might even oppose him, and put hinderances in 
the path of his growing ambition, will remain 
here, liow do you believe that Bonaparte will 
select me to accompany him ? ” 

The young man let his head fall slowly on his 
breast. “No,” he said, softly, “no, I do not be- 
lieve he will.” 

“ And I know he will not,” replied Kleber. 
“ I shall remain here in Egypt, and die here ! 
Hush I Do not contradict me ; there are pre- 


272 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


sentiments which do not mislead us, and which 
God sends to us, that we may shape our course 
by them, and set our house in order. My house 
is set in order — my will is made ; I have given 
it to Bonaparte, and he has solemnly sworn to 
carry it into execution in all respects. Only 
one care is left me — to provide for your imme- 
diate future, and to arrange that you may reach 
France.” 

“ You adhere to this ? ” asked Louis, sadly. 

“ Yes, I abide by this ; you must not run away 
from your own future, and this will, I trust, be a 
brilliant one. All tokens indicate that France is 
wearied with the republic, and that it is perhaps 
nearly ready to restore the throne of the Lilies. 
Young man, shall this reestablished throne fall 
into the hands of that man who contributed so 
much to its downfall — who was the calumniator, 
the secret enemy of Queen Marie Antoinette? 
Would you consent that the Count de Provence 
should be King of France ? ” 

“ No, never ! ” cried Louis, with blazing eyes 
and flaming face. “That never can be; for, be- 
fore the brother of Louis XYI. can ascend the 
throne as Louis XYIII., his rightful predecessor, 
Louis XVII., must have died. ” 

“ He has died, and the French government has 
placed in its archives the certificate of the death 
of Louis Charles Capet, signed by the physicians 
and the servants of the Temple. My son, in 
order to prevent the Count de Provence acknowl- 
edging this certificate as genuine, you must be 
prepared to place before him and the world other 
testimonials that Louis XYII. is not dead. This 
is a sacred offering which you must make to the 
manes of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, even 
if the stake were not a throne and a crown ! ” 

“You are right,” cried Louis, with enthusiasm, 
“ my whole life shall be devoted to this sacred 
trust ; it shall have no other aim than this : to 
avenge Marie Antoinette of the most cruel of her 
enemies, the Count de Provence, and to place 
the son, whom, after the death of her husband, 
she acknowledged as King of France, on the 
throne which really belongs to him, and not to the 
Count de Provence! You are right, general, I 


must return to Europe ; I must carry to France 
the papers which show that Louis XVII. did 
not die in the Temple, but was released. I am 
ready to go, and to endure the pain of parting 
from you.” 

“ May God grant that we may both be com 
pensated for this pain 1 ” replied Kleber, embra- 
cing the young man tenderly. “ There remain to 
us a few weeks to be together. Let us use them 
so that they shall afford us many cheerful recol- 
lections. Bonaparte will not leave Egypt before 
adding one more glory to his reputation. He 
does not mean to return to France as the con- 
quered, but as the conqueror 1 ” 

General Kleber was right. He knew Bonaparte 
sufficiently well to be able to read his counte- 
nance; he understood the dumb speech of the 
Caesar of the age. 

Bonaparte wanted to gain one great battle, in 
order to return to Europe with glory. He gained 
it at Aboukir, winning the day in a contest with 
the united Turks and English — one of the most 
signal victories that he had ever won. Eight 
thousand prisoners were taken on that 21st of 
July, 1799. Four thousand lay dead upon the 
battle-field, and as many were sunk in the cap- 
tured and destroyed ships of the English. On 
the day after the battle the foam of the waves 
was tipped with blood along the shore. 

Bonaparte himself conducted the whole battle,- 
and personally gained the victory. At the mo- 
ment when the contest seemed doubtful, he as- 
sumed command of a cavalry regiment, advanced 
upon the Turkish pacha, and by his heroic cour- 
age kindled all the army afresh. Even General 
Kleber could not disguise his admiration of the 
hero of Aboukir ; and when, at the close of the 
battle, he met Bonaparte on the field, he embraced 
him with passionate tenderness. “ General,” he 
cried, with enthusiasm, “you are as great as the 
world ; but the world is not great enough for 
you!” * 

The victory that Bonaparte desired was thus 
won, and he could return with honor to France. 
He made secret preparations for his journey 


* Denon, Memoires, voL i., p. 849. 


THE BARON DE RICHEMONT. 


273 


thither, fitting up two ships, which were to carry 
' him and his companions. The army was to hear 
of his departure only after he had gone; but, 
much as he desired to keep the thing secret, there 
were some who had to know of it, and among 
them, happily, was General Kleber. Bonaparte 
had chosen him as his successor, and therefore 
he must be informed respecting the condition of 
affairs before the head of the army should with- 
draw. On the same day when this communica- 
1 tion took place, Kleber repaired to General De- 
saix, who was his intimate friend, and from whom 
he learned that he was to be one of Bonaparte’s 
companions on the return. The two generals had 
' a prolonged secret interview, and at the close of 
it they both went to Kleber’s house, and entered 
the room of his adjutant Louis. General Desaix 
bowed with great deference to the young man, 
f who, blushing at the honor which so distinguished 
a general paid him, extended his hand to him. 

|i Desaix pressed a kiss upon it, and from his eyes, 

' unused to tears, there fell a drop upon the young 

I man’s hand. 

“ General,” cried Louis, in amazement, “ what 
are you doing ? ” 

“ I am paying my homage to misfortune and to 
the past,” said Desaix, solemnly, “ and the tear 
I which I drop on your hand is the seal of my 
1 . fidelity and silence in the future. Young man, I 
I > swear to you that I will cherish your secret in 
. ray heart as a hallowed treasure, and will defend 
I with my life’s blood the papers which your uncle, 

i‘ General Kleber, has intrusted to my care this 

* 

i|. day. I am a soldier of the republic, I have 
j| . pledged my fidelity to her, and must and shall 
keep it. I cannot become a partisan; but I 
! shall always be the protector of misfortune, and 
a helper in time of need. Trust me in this, and 
accept me as your friend.” 

“ I do accept you, general,” said Louis, gently, 
“ and if I do not promise to love you just as ten- 
derly as I love my uncle. General Kleber, who 
has been to me father, brother, and protector, and 
to whom I owe every thing, yet, I can assure you, 
that, after him, there is no one- whom, I wull love 

as I shall you, and there is no one in Europe 
18 


who can contend with you for my love. I am 
very poor in friends, and yet I feel that my heart 
is rich in love that no one desires now.” 

“ Preserve that possession well, my son,” said 
Kleber, as he took leave of his son, and laid his 
hand on the head of the young man. “ Preserve 
your heart tender and loving, for if Pate is just, 
it may one day be for the advantage of a wdiole 
nation that you are so, and the heart of the man 
be the mediator between the people and its king I . 
Farewell, my son ; we see each other to-day for the 
last time, for in this very hour you will go to 
your ship with Desaix. It may be that the ships 
will sail this very night, and if so, well ! A 
quick and unlooked-for separation mitigates the 
pains of parting. You will soon have overcome 
them, and when you reach Paris, the past will 
sink behind you into the sea.” 

“ Never, oh, never ! ” cried Louis, with emo- 
tion. “ I shall never forget my benefactor, my 
second father ! ” 

“ My son, one easily forgets in Paris, and espe- 
cially when he goes thither for the purpose of 
creating a new future out of the ruins of the 
past ! But I shall never forget you ; and if my 
presentiment should not deceive me, and I should 
soon die, you will learn after my death that I have 
loved you as a son. Now go, and I say to you, as 
another loved voice once said to you, and ns the 
sick and the dying once repeated it to you, ‘ God 
bless you ! All saints and angels protect you ! ’ ” 

They remained locked in their tender embrace, 
and then parted — ^never to meet again ! • 

That* very night, before the morning began to 
dawn. General Desaix started, accompanied by 
his adjutant Louis and a few servants. Their 
first goal was Alexandria, whither the command of 
General Bonaparte summoned them and a few 
others. 

The proposed journey of the commanding gen- 
eral was still a carefully concealed secret, and the 
divan in Cairo had merely been infornied that Bo- 
naparte was planning to undertake a short jour- 
ney in the Delta. 

On the 22d of August, 1799, an hour after mid- 
night, two French frigates- left the harbor of 


274 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


Alexandria. On board of one of them was Bona- 
parte, the emperor of the future ; — on the other 
was Louis Charles, the king of the past. Name- 
less and unknown, the descendant of the mon- 
archs of France, with his sixteen years, returned 
to France — to France, that seemed no longer to 
remember its past, its kings, and to have no 
thoughts, no love, no admiration for aught 
excepting that new, brilliant constellation which 
had arisen over France — Bonaparte. 

He had returned from Egypt to regain Italy, 
but he found other work awaiting him in Paris. 
This he brought to completion with the energy 
and boldness which characterized all his dealings. 
By a prompt stroke he put an end to the constitu- 
tion which had prevailed till then, abrogated the 
Convention and the Council of Five Hundred, and 
gave the French republic a new constitution, put- 
ting at the head of the government three consuls, 
Sieyes, Roger Ducos, and himself. But these 
three consuls were intended to be a mere transi- 
tion, a mere step forward in the victorious march 
of Bonaparte. After a few weeks they were 
superseded, and Bonaparte became the First Con- 
sul and the head of France. 

"On the 25th of December, 1799, France hailed 
General Bonaparte as the First Consul of the 
French republic. A new century was dawning, 
and with the beginning of this new century the 
gates of the Tuileries, the deserted palace of 
kings, opened to a new possessor. Bonaparte, 
the First Consul, took up his residence there ; and 
in the first spring of the new century the consul, 
accompanied by Josephine, removed to St. Cloud 
for summer quarters. The park of Queen Marie 
Antoinette was given by the French nation to the 
First Consul ; and in the apartments where the 
queen with her son Louis Charles and her daughter 
Theresa once dwelt, Josephine, with her son Eu- 
gene and her daughter Hortense, now abode. 

“ I would I had remained in Egypt,” sighed the 
dauphin often, when in the silence and solitude 
of his apartment he surrendered himself to his 
recollections and dreams. “ It had been better 
to die young in a foreign land, while all the stars 
of hope were beaming above me, than to protract 


a miserable, obscure life here, and see all the stars 
fade out one by one ! ” 

Yes, the stars of hope were paling one by one 
for the son of King Louis. No one thought of 
him, no one believed in him. He had died in the 
Temple, that was all that any one wanted to 
know. The dead was lamented by all, the living 
would have been unwelcome to any. He had 
died and been buried, Mttle King Louis XVIL, and 
no one spoke of him more. 

The only subject of men’s talk was the glory 
and greatness of the First Consul. The beauty 
and grace of Josephine were celebrated in the 
same halls which had once resounded with the 
praises of fair Queen Marie Antoinette. The half 
million lovers who had once bowed to Marie were 
now devoted to Josephine, and paid their homage 
to her with the s^>.me enthusiasm with which they 
had before worshipped the queen. The son of 
the general who once had given the oath of fideli- 
ty to King Louis XVI., the son of General Beau- 
harnais, is now the adopted son of the ruler of 
France ; while the son of the king must secrete 
himself and remain without name, rank, and title. 
It is his good fortune that Desaix is there to pity 
the forsaken one, and to give him a place in his 
home and his heart. No one else knows him ; he 
is the adjutant of General Desaix, that is his only 
rank and title. 

But he still remained the nephew of General 
Kleber, who had been left in Egypt, and who, at 
the end of the century, gained a decisive victory at 
Heliopolis over the Turks and Mamelukes. He 
remained the nephew of General Kleber, and at 
the end of the year 1800 the frigate I’Aigle, on 
its return from Egypt, brought a great packet for 
General Desaix. It contained many papers of 
value, many rolls of gold-pieces, besides gems 
and pearls. But it also contained a sealed black 
document directed to the adjutant of General 
Desaix. This document contained the will of 
Kleber, commander-in-chief of the French army 
in Egypt. He had given it to General Menou, to- 
gether with his papers and valuables, with the 
intimation that directly after his death they 
should all be sent to General Desaix in France. 


THE BARON BE RICHEMONT. 


General Menou followed this instruction, for 
Kleber was dead. The murderous bullet of a 
Mameluke killed him on the 14th of June, 1800. 
His will was the last evidence of his love for his 
nephew Louis, whom he designated as liis only 
heir, and Kleber was rich through inherited wealth 
as well as the spoils of war. 

But Louis Charles took no satisfaction, and it 
made no impression on him, when Desaix informed 
him that he was the possessor of a million. “ A 
million ! What shall I do with it ? ” answered 
Louis, sadly. “ Yfere it a million soldiers, and I 
might put myself at their head and with them 
n storm the Tuileries and make my entrance into 
II St. Cloud, I should consider myself fortunate. 

^ But what advantage to me are a million of 
I francs ? I can begin nothing with them ; I should 
have to establish a store and perhaps have the 
I custom of the First Consul of the republic ! ” 
j “ Hush ! young man, hush ! ” replied Desaix, 

[ “ you are bitter and sad, and I understand it, for 

the horizon is dark for you, and offers you no 
cheerful prospect ; but a million francs is a good 
j thing notwithstanding, and one day you will know 
[ how to prize it. This million of francs makes 
:: you a rich man, and a rich man is a free and in- 
dependent man. If you do not wish to live longer 
■ as a soldier, you have the power to give up your 
I commission and live without care, and that is 
}i something. My next business will be to assure 

I you your fortune against all the uncertainties of 
the future, which are the more to be guarded 
against, as we are soon to advance into Italy 
I again for the next campaign. I can, therefore, 

I not put your property and your papers into your 
I hands, for they constitute your future, and we 

j 

i must deposit them with some one with whom 
i ' they shall be safe, and that must be with a man 
of peace. Do you know who this man is ? ” 
i'- “ I know no one, general, excepting yourself,” 

replied Louis, with a shrug, “ whom I should dare 
I to trust.” 

“But, fortunately, I know an entirely reliable 
5 man ; shall I tell you who he is ? ” 
f “ Do so, I beg you, general.” 
f' “ His name is Fouche.” 


275 

Louis started, and a deathly paleness cov- 
ered his cheeks. “ Fouch4, the chief of police! 
Fouche, the traitor, who gave his voice in the 
Convention for the death of King Louis — to him, 
the red republican, a man of blood and treachery, 
do you want to convey my papers and my prop- 
erty ? ” 

“Yes, Louis, for with him alone are they se- 
cure. Fouche will protect you, and will stand by 
you with just as much zeal as he once displayed 
in the persecution of the royal family. I know 
him well, and I vouch for him. Men must not 
always be judged by their external appearance. 
He who shows himself our enemy to-day, lends us 
to-morrow, it may be, a helpful arm, and becomes 
our friend, sometimes because his heart has been 
changed, and sometimes because his character is 
feeble. I cannot with certainty say which of 
these reasons has determined Fouche, but I am 
firmly convinced that he will be a protector and 
a friend to you, and that in no hands will your 
property and your papers be safer than in his.” * 

Louis made no reply ; he dropped his head 
with a sigh, and submitted. 

On, in the new century, rolled the victorious car 
of Bonaparte, dowm the Alps, into the fertile 
plains of Italy. The conqueror of Lodi and Ar- 
cole meant to take revenge on the enemies who 
bad snatched back the booty — revenge on Austria, 
who had broken the peace of Campo Formio. 
And he did take this revenge at Marengo, where, 
on the 14th of June, he gained a brilliant victory 
over Austria, and won all Italy as the prize of the 
battle. 

But the day was purchased at a sacrifice. Gen- 
eral Desaix paid with his death for his impetuous 
onset. In the very thick of the fight, mortally 
wounded by a ball, he fell into the arms of his 
adjutant Louis, and only with extreme peril could 
the latter, himself wounded, bear the general 
away from the ?nSlee, and not be trampled to 
death by the horses of his owm soldiers. 

Poor Louis Charles ! He now stood entirely 
alone — the last friend had left him. Death had 

^ Desaix's own words. — See “Memoircs dii Due de 
Normandie,” p. 61. 


276 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


taken away every thing, parents, crown, home, 
name, friends. He was alone, all alone in the 
world — ^no man to take any interest in him, no 
one to know who he was. 

Sunk in sadness, he remained in Alessandria 
after the battle of Marengo, and allowed his ex- 
ternal wound to heal, while the internal one con- 
tinued to bleed. He cursed death, because it had 
not taken him, while removing his last friend. 

And when the wound was healed, what should 
he do ? — ^under what name and title should he be 
enrolled in the army ? His only protector was 
dead, and the adjutant was reported to have died 
with him. He put off the uniform which he had 
worn as the soldier of the republic which had de- 
stroyed his throne and his inheritance, and, in 
simple, unpretending garments, he returned to 
Paris, an unknown young man. 

Desaix was right ; it was, indeed, something to 
possess a million of francs. Poor as he was in 
love and happiness, this million of francs made 
him at least a free and independent man, and 
therefore he would demand his inheritance of him 
whom he formerly shunned because he was one 
of the murderers of his father. 

Fouche received the young man exactly as De- 
saix had expected. He showed himself in the 
light of a sympathizing protector ; he was touched 
with the view of this youth, whose countenance 
was the evidence of his lineage, the living picture 
of the unfortunate Louis XVI., whom Fouche 
had brought to the scaffold. Perhaps this man 
of blood and the guillotine had compunctions of 
conscience; perhaps he wanted to atone to the 
son for his injuries to the parents; perhaps he 
was planning to make of the son of the Bourbons 
a check to the ambitious consul of the republic ; 
perhaps to humiliate the grasping Count de Lille, 
who was intriguing at all the European courts 
for the purpose of raising armies against the 
French republic. The son of Louis XYI. could 
be employed as a useful foil to all these political 
manoeuvres, and subsequently he could either be 
publicly acknowledged, or denounced as an im- 
postor, as circumstances might determine. 

At present it suited the plans of the crafty 


Fouche to acknowledge him, and to assume the 
attitude of a protector. He put on a very re- 
spectful and sympathetic air to the poor solitary 
youth; with gentle, tremulous voice he called 
him your Majesty; he begged his pardon for the 
past ; he spoke with such deep emotion and so 
solemn a tone of the good, great, and gentle Louis 
XYI., that the heart of the son was powerfullj 
touched. And when Fouche, with flaming words 
of enthusiasm, began to speak of the noble, un- 
happy Queen Marie Antoinette, when with glow- 
ing eloquence he celebrated her beauty and her 
gentleness in time of good-fortune, her greatness 
and steadfastness in ill-fortune, all the anger of 
the young man melted in the tears of love which 
he poured out as he remembered his mother. 

“ I forgive you, Fouch6 ; yes, I forgive you,” 
he cried, extending both his hands. “I see 
plainly the power of political faction hurried yon 
away ; but your heart cannot be bad, for you love 
my noble mother. I forgive you, and I trust 
you.” 

Fouche, deeply moved, sank upon his knee be- 
fore the dauphin, and called himself one of his 
loyal subjects, and promised to take all means to 
restore the young king to the throne of his fa- 
thers. He conjured Louis to trust him, and to 
enter upon no plan without asking his counsel. 

Louis promised this. He told Fouche that he 
was the only man who had talked with him about 
the past without using ambiguous language ; that 
he was surprised at this, and compelled to recog- 
nize as true what formerly had been fettered on 
his tongue. He told him that he had promised 
his rescuer, with a solemn oath, never to acknowl- 
edge himself as the son of Louis XYI., and King 
of France, till this rescuer and benefactor em- 
powered him to do so, and relqAsed him from his 
vow of silence. He made it, therefore, the first 
condition of his confidence that Fouche should 
disclose his secret to no one, but carry it faith- 
fully in his own breast. 

Fouche promised ah, and took a sacred oath 
that he would never reveal the secret confided to 
him by the King of France. But he confessed at 
the same time that the First Consul knew very 


THE BARON DE RICHEMONT. 


277 


! well that the son of the king had been released 
from the Temple, and that among the posthu- 
mous papers of Kleber there was a letter di- 
rected to Bonaparte, stating that he, Kleber, 
knew very Avell that the little Capet was still 
living, and imploring Bonaparte to restore the 
[I orphan to the throne of the Lilies. The consul 
L had, therefore, quietly made investigations, and 
|| learned that Louis had taken part as the adjutant 
, of General Desaix in the battle of Marengo, that 
I he had been wounded there, and remained in the 
hospital of Alessandria till his recovery. Since 
then all trace of the young man had been lost, 
and he had commissioned Fouche to discover 
the adjutant of Kleber and Desaix and bring him 
to him. 

“You will not do that ? ” cried Louis, eagerly ; 
“ you will not disclose me ? ” 

“Are you afraid of him ? ” asked Fouche, with 
a suspicious smile. 

The young man blushed, and a cloud passed 
j over his clear forehead. 

I “ Fear ! ” he replied with a shrug. “ The sons 
i • 

' of my ancestors have no fear ; and I have shown 

on the battle-fields of Aboukir and Marengo, and 

in the pest-houses of Jaffa, that I know not the 

word. But when one meets a bloodthirsty lion 

in his path he turns out of the way, and when a 

tiger extends its talons at one he flies ; that is the 

duty of self-preservation, and not the flight of a 

coward.” 

“ Do you believe, then, that this lion thirsts for 
royal blood ? ” 

“ I believe that he thirsts for royal rank, and 
that he will neglect no means to vanquish all hin- 
derances that might intervene between himself and 
the throne. Do you believe, sir, that the man 
who, after the battle of Aboukir, sentenced five 
thousand prisoners to death, would hesitate a mo- 
ment to take the life of a poor, defenceless young 
man such as I am ? He would beat me into the 
dust as the lion does the flea which dares to play 
with his mane.” 

“ It appears you know this lion very well,” said 
Fouche, with a smile, “ and I really believe you 
judge him rightly. But be without concern. He 


shall not know from me that I am aware of you 
and your abiding-place. In order that Bonaparte 
shall not take me to be a bad detective, I shall 
show him in all other things that I am on the 
alert. In case of necessity, it may be that I shall 
have to resort to deception, and, in order to save 
your life, inform the consul that you are dead. 
There were a great many young officers who fell 
at Marengo, or afterward died as the result of 
their wounds. Why should not the adjutant of 
General Desaix have met this fate? Yes, I be- 
lieve this will be the best. I will give you out as 
dead, in order to save your life. I will cause a 
paper to be prepared which shall testify that the 
adjutant of General Desaix, who lay there in the 
hospital, died there of his wounds and was 
buried.” 

“ And so I shall disappear from life a second 
time ? ” asked Louis, sadly. 

“ Yes, sire, in order to enter anew upon it with 
greater splendor,” replied Fouche, eagerly. 

“ Who knows whether this shall ever be ? ” 
sighed Louis. “ How shall I be able to establish 
my identity if I die and am buried twice ? Who 
will be my pledge that I shall be able to convince 
men that I am not a deceiver, and that my whole 
existence is not an idle tale ? There are only a 
few who know and believe that little Capet es- 
caped from the Temple, and went to Egypt as 
Kleber’s adjutant. If, now, these few learn that 
the adjutant fell in battle, if the paper that testi- 
fies to his death is laid before them, how shall I 
subsequently be believed if I announce that I am 
alive, and that I am the one for whom I give my- 
self out ? The seal of royalty is impressed on no 
man’s brow, and we know from history that there 
have been false pretenders.” 

“You shall show with your papers that you are 
none such,” said Fouche, eagerly, “ and God wdll 
grant that I, too, shall be living when the time 
shall be in which you may come forward with 
raised voice and demand your inheritance and 
your throne. Hope for that time, and meanwhile 
preserve your papers well. Carry them always 
with you, part with them neither day nor night, 
for in these papers rest your future and your 


278 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


crown. No other man besides yourself can take 
care of them. These papers are worth more to 
you than a million of francs, although even that 
should not be scorned. Here are the documents 
that give you possession of your wealth. I have 
deposited your funds in the Bank of France, and 
you can draw out money at any time by present- 
ing these checks that I give you, simply writing 
your name upon them.” 

“ By simply writing my name upon them ! ” 
cried Louis, bitterly. “ But, sir, what is my 
name ? How shall I be called ? I was formerly 
designated as the nephew of Kleber, Colonel 
Louis, the adjutant of Desaix. But Colonel Louis 
can no longer acknowledge that he is alive, and 
you propose to convince the First Consul that the 
nephew of Kleber is dead. Who, then, am I ? 
What name shall I subscribe to those papers? 
By what name shall the nameless, the dead and 
buried, the resurrected, the again dead and buried 
one — by what name shall he draw money from the 
bank ? ” 

“Very true,” said Fouche. “A name, or ra- 
ther the mask of a citizen’s or nobleman’s name, 
must be your disguise, and it is imperatively ne- 
cessary that we give you such, and provide you 
with papers that cannot be forged, which shall 
prove your existence, and secure you against 
every assault.” 

“Very good; then tell me how I shall be 
called,” said Louis, sadly. “Be the godfather of 
the solitary and nameless.” 

“Well, I will,” cried Fouche. “ In the glamour 
of political passions I have raised my voice 
against the life of your father ; full of regret I 
will raise my voice for the life of the son, and 
assist him to enter afresh upon life and into the 
society of men. Young man, I will give you a 
name and rank, till the French nation restore to 
you your true name and rank. You shall hence- 
forth be called the Baron de Richemont. Will 
you accept it ? ” 

“ Yes, I will accept it,” said Louis, gently. 
“ To be the Baron de Richemont is better than 
to be a dead and buried person without any 
name.” 


“Very good, my lord baron,” cried Fouch6, “I 
will have the necessary certificates and papers 
made out, and enter your property in the Bank of 
France under the name of the Baron de Riche- 
mont. If you please, come to-morrow to me, and 
I will deliver to you the papers of Monsieur de 
Richemont.” 

“ I shall come, be sure of that,” said Louis, giv- 
ing him his hand ; “ it seems to me my fate to go 
incognito through life, and God alone knows 
whether I shall ever abandon this incognito.” 

He saluted Fouche with a sad smile, and went 
out. The minister listened to the resounding 
footstep, and then broke out into loud, mocking 
laughter. 

“ Foolish boy ! ” he said, raising his hand 
threateningly, “ foolish boy ! You suppose that 
only God knows whether you will ever come out 
of your incognito. You mistake — ^besides God, 
Fouche knows it. Yes, Fouche knows that this 
incognito extends over you like a net, from which 
you never will escape. No, the Baron de Riche- 
mont shall never be transformed into King 
Louis XYII. But he shall be an instrument with 
which I v/ill hold in check this ambitious Consul 
Bonaparte, who is striving for the throne, and this 
grasping Count de Lille, who in his exile calls 
himself King Louis XVIIT. — the instrument with 
which I threaten when I am threatened. Only, 
my little Baron de Richemont, I do not know 
what I can make out of you, but I know that you 
shall make out of me a rich, dangerous, and 
dreaded man. Poor, credulous fool ! How 
easily you fall into the pit ! The Baron de 
Richemont shall never escape from it. I vouch 
for it — ^I, Fouche ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

FOUCHE. 

The First Consul was walking with hasty steps 
up and down his cabinet. His eyes flashed, and 
his face, which elsewhere was impenetrable, like 


FOUCHE. 


279 


that of the brazen statues of the Roman emperors, 
disclosed the fiery impatience and stormy pas- 
sions which raged within him. His lips, which 
were pressed closely together, opened now and 
then to mutter a word of threatening or of anger, 
and that word he hurled like a poisoned arrow di- 
rectly at the man who, in a respectful attitude 
and with pallid cheeks, stood not far from the 
door, near the table covered Avith papers. — 
This man was Fouche, formerly the chief 
of police in Paris, and now a mere member 
of the senate of the republic. He had gone 
to the Tuileries in order to request a secret 
audience of Bonaparte, who had now forgotten 
the little prefix of “ First ” to his consular title, 
and now reigned supreme and alone over France. 

Bonaparte suddenly paused in his rapid walk, 
coming to a halt directly in front of Fouche, and 
looked at him with flaming eyes, as if they were 
two daggers with which he meant to pierce deep 
into his heart. But Fouche did not see this, for 
he stood Avith downcast eyes, and appeared not to 
be aware that Bonaparte was so near him. 

“ Fouche,” cried the consul, violently, “ I 
know you, and I am not to be deceived by your 
indifferent, affected air ! You shall know that I 
do not fear you — you and all the ghosts that you 
can conjure up. You think that you frighten 
me ; you wish that I should pay you dearly for 
your secret. But you shall knoAv# that I am not 
at all of a timorous nature, and that I shall pay 
no money for the solution of a riddle which I 
may perhaps be able to solve without your help. 
I warn you, sir, you secret-vender, be Avell on your 
guard ! You have your spies, but I have my po- 
lice, and they inform me about every thing out of 
the usual course. It is known, sir, that you are 
carrying on a correspondence with people out of 
the country — ^understand me, with people out of 
the country ! ” 

“ Consul,” replied Fouche, calmly, “ I have 
certainly not known that the republic forbids its 
faithful servants to send letters abroad.” 

“ The republic Avill never alloAV one of its ser- 
vants to correspond with its enemies,” cried Bo- 
naparte, in thundering tones. “ Be silent, sir ! no 


evasions, no circumlocutions ! Let us speak plain- 
ly, and to the point. You are in correspondence 
with the Count de Lille.” 

“ You know that, consul, for I have had the 
honor to give you a letter myself, which the 
pretender directed to you, and sent to me to be 
delivered.” 

“ A ridiculous, nonsensical letter,” replied Bo- 
naparte, with a shrug ; “ a letter in which this 
fool demands of me to bring him back to France, 
and to indicate the place which I wish to oc- 
cupy in his government. By my word, an idiot 
could not write a more crazy document ! I am 
to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in 
his government! Well, I shall do that ; but there 
will be no place left near me for the Bourbons, 
whom France has speAved out, as one spews out 
mortal poison. These hated and weak Bourbons 
shall never attain to power and prestige again. 
France has turned away from them. France ab- 
hors this degenerate race of kings ; it will erect a 
new edifice of power and glory, but there Avill be 
no room in it for the Bourbons ! Mark that, in- 
triguer, and build no air-castles on it. I demand 
of you an open confession, or I shall accuse you 
as a traitor and a royalist.” 

“ Consul, I shall not avoid this charge,” replied 
Fouche, calmly, ‘‘ and I am persuaded that France 
will follow with interest the course of a trial which 
will unveil an important secret — which Avill inform 
it that the rightful King of France, according to 
the opinion of Consul Bonaparte, did not die in 
the Temple under the tender care of Simon the 
cobbler, but is still alive, and is, therefore, the 
true heir of the croAvn. That would occasion 
some joy to the royalists, surely 1 ” 

The consul stamped on the floor with rage, his 
eyes shot flames, and when he spoke again, his 
voice rang like peals of thunder, so angrily and 
so poAA^erfully did it pour forth, 
y “ I will change the paeans and the joy of these 
royalists to lamentations and wailings,” he cried 
“All the enemies of France shall know that I 
hold the sword in my hands, and mean to use it^ 
not only against foes without, but foes within. 
France has given me this SAvord, and I shall not 


280 


MAKIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


lay it down, even if all the kings of Europe, and 
all the Bourbons who^ie in the vaults of St. Denis, 
leave their graves, to demand it from me ! I am 
the living sword of France, and never shall this 
sword bow before the sceptre of a Bourbon. 
Fresh shoots might sooner spring from the dead 
stick whicli the wanderer carries through the 
desert, than a Bourbon sceptre could grow from 
the sword of Bonaparte ; and all the same, 
whether this Bourbon call himself Louis XYII. 
or Louis XVIII. ! Mark that, Fouche, and mark 
also that when I once say ‘ I will,’ I shall know 
how to make my will good, even if the whole 
world ventures to confront me.” 

‘‘ I know that, consul,” said Fouch4, with def- 
erence. God gave you, for the weal of France, 
an iron wdll and a brain of fire, and destined you 
to wear not only laurels, but crowns.” 

A flame glared from the eyes of the consul and 
played over the face of Fouche, but the latter ap- 
peared not to notice it^ for he cast down his eyes 
again, and his manner was easy and uncon- 
strained. * 

“You now speak a word which is not becom- 
ing,” said Bonaparte, calmly. “ I am the first 
servant of the republic, and in a republic there 
are no crowns.” 

“ Not citizens’ crovms, general ? ” asked Fouche, 
with a faint smile. “ I mean, that this noblest of 
crowns can everywhere be acceptable, and no 
head has merited such a crown more than the 
noble Consul Bonaparte, who has made the re- 
public of France a worthy rival of its sister in 
North America.” 

Bonaparte threw his head proudly back. “ I 
am not ambitious of the honor,” he said, “of 
being the Washington of France.” 

“Yet you are he, general,” replied Fouche, with 
a smile. “ Only the Washington of France does 
not live in the White House which a republic 
has built, but in the Tuileries, which he has 
received as the heir of the French kings. Gen- 
eral, as the worthiest, the greatest, the most pow- 
erful, and the most signally called, you have come 
into the possession of the inheritance of the kings 
of France. For to this inheritance belongs also 


the crown of France. Wliy do you refuse this, 
while accepting all the rest ? ” 

“And what if I show you that I do not want 
it ? ” asked Bonaparte. “ And what if I should 
tell you that I do not feel myself worthy to as- 
sume the whole, undivided inheritance of the 
Bourbons? Would you be foolish and senseless 
enough to believe such an idle tale ? ” 

“ Consul, you have already done so many things 
that are wonderful, and have brought so many 
magic charms to reality, that I no longer hold 
any thing to be impossible, as soon as you have 
laid your hand upon it.” 

“ And therefore you hold a concealed magician’s 
wand, which you propose to draw forth at some 
decisive moment, and present to me, as the cross 
is presented to Beelzebub in the tale ? ” 

“I do not understand you, consul,” replied 
Fouche, with the most innocent air in the world. 

“Well, then, I will make myself intelligible. 
The magician’s w^and, which you are keeping con- 
cealed, is called Louis XVII. Oh ! do not shake 
your cunning head ; do not deny with your smooth 
lips, which once uttered the death-sentence of 
Louis XYL, and which now are used to leach a 
fool and a pretender that he is the son of the 
murdered king. Truly, it is ridiculous. The 
regicide wants to atone for his offence by hatch- 
ing a fable, and making a king out of a mani- 
kin.” 

“General, no fable, and no manikin,” cried 
Fouche, with a threatening voice. “ The son of 
the unfortunate king is alive, and — ” 

“ Ah ! ” interrupted Bonaparte, triumphantly, 
“ so you confess at last, you reveal your great 
secret at length ! I have driven the sly fox out 
of his hole, and the hunt can now begin. It will 
be a hot chase, I promise you, and I shall not 
rest till I have drawn the skin over the ears of 
the fox, or — ” 

“ Until he says his jpater peccavi ? ” asked 
Fouche, with a gentle smile. 

“ Until he delivers to me the changeling whom 
he wants to use as his Deus ex macliina^'^ replied 
Bonaparte. “ My dear sir, it helps you not at all 
to begin again this system of lies. Your anger 


FOUCHE. 


281 


has betrayed you, and I have succeeded in out- 
witting the fox. The so-called ‘ son of the king is 
alive ; ’ that has escaped you, and you cannot take 
it back.” 

“No, it cannot be taken back,” replied Fouche, 
with a sigh. “ I have disclosed myself, or rather 
I have been outwitted. You are in all things a 
hero and a master, in cunning as much as in 
bravery and discretion. I bow before you as 
before a genius whom God Himself has sent upon 
the earth, to bring the chaotic world into order 
again ; I bow before you as before my lord and 
master; and instead of opposing you, I will hence- 
forth be content with being your instrument, pro- 
vided that you will accept me as such.” 

“ That is, Fouch6, provided that I will fulfil 
your conditions,” cried Bonaparte, with a shrug. 
“Yery well, name your conditions! Without 
circumlocution ! AVhat do you demand ? ” 

“ Consul, in order that we may understand one 
another, we must both be open and unreserved. 
Will you permit me to be free with you ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Bonaparte, with a conde- 
scending nod. 

“ Consul, you have thrust me aside, you have 
no longer confidence in me. You have taken 
from me the post of minister of police, and given 
it to my enemy Regnier. That has given me 
pain, it has injured me ; for it has branded me be- 
fore all the world as a useless man, whom Bona- 
parte suspects. Your enemies have believed that 
my alienation from you would conduce to their 
advantage, and that out of the dismissed police pre- 
fect they might gain an enemy to Bonaparte. Con- 
spirators of all kinds have come to me — emis- 
saries of Count de Lille, deputies from the royalists 
in Yendee, as well as from the red republicans, by 
whom you, Bonaparte, are as much hated as by 
the royalists, for they will never forgive you for 
putting yourself at the head of the republic, and 
making yourself their master. All of these parties 
have made propositions to me, all of them want 
me to join them. I have lent my ear to them all, 
I have been informed of all their plans, and am 
at this hour the sworn ally of both the republi- 
cans and the royalists. Oh! I beg you,” con- 


tinued 'Fouche, as Bonaparte started up, and 
opened his lips to speak — “ I beg you, general, 
hear me to the end, and do not interrupt me till 
I have told you all. — Yes, I have allied myself to 
three separate conspiracies, and have become 
zealous in them all. There is, first, that of the 
republicans, who hate you as a tyrant of the repub- 
lic ; there is, in the second place, the conspiracy 
of the royalists, who want to put the Count de 
Lille on the throne ; and third, there is that of 
the genuine Capetists, who want to make the 
‘orphan of the Temple’ Louis XYII. These 
three conspiracies have it as their first object to 
.remove and destroy Consul Bonaparte. Yes, to 

V 

reach this end the three have united, and made a 
mutual compromise. Whichever party succeeds 
in murdering you, is to come into power, and the 
others are to relinquish the field to it : and so if 
Bonaparte is killed by a republican dagger, the 
republic is to remain at present the recognized 
form of government ; and if the ball of a royalist 
removes you, the republicans strike their banner, 
and grant that France shall determine, by a gen- 
eral ballot, whether it shall be a republic or a 
kingdom.” 

“ \Yell,” asked Bonaparte, calmly, as Fouche 
closed, and cast an inquiring glance at the con- 
sul’s face, which was, notwithstanding, entirely 
cold and impenetrable — “ well, why do you stop ? 
I did not interrupt you with a question. Go 
on!” 

“ I will, consul. I have made myself a mem- 
ber of these three conspiracies ; for, in order to 
contend with the heads of Cerberus, one must 
have them all joined; and in order to be the con- 
queror in a great affair, one must know who all 
his enemies are, and what are all their plans. 1 
know all the plans of the allies, and because I 
know them, it is within my power to bring discon- 
tent and enmity among them, using for this end 
the third conspiracy — that of the dependants of 
Louis XYII., the orphan of the Temple. Through 
sympathy with him, I have divided the party of 
royalists ; I have withdrawn from the Count de 
Lille many of his important dependants, and even 
some of the chief conspirators, who came to Paris 


282 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


to contend for Louis XYIII., have recently in 
secret bent the knee to Louis XYIL, and sworn 
fidelity to him.” 

“ That is not true,” cried Bonaparte, vehement- 
ly. “You are telling me nurses’ stories, with 
which children may be frightened, but men not. 
There are no secret meetings in Paris ! ” 

“ General, if your minister of police, Regnier, 
has told you so, he only shows that he is no man 
to be at the head of the police, and knows noth- 
ing of the detective service. I tell you, general, 
there are secret societies in Paris, and I ought to 
know, for I am a member of four separate ones.” 

Ah ! sir,” sneered Bonaparte, “ you are out 
of your head ! Before, you spoke of three con- 
spiracies, and now they have grown to be four.” 

“ I am speaking now of secret societies, con- 
sul, for not every secret society can be called a 
conspiracy. Before, when I was giving account 
of conspiracies, I mentioned three; now, when 
we speak of secret societies, I have to mention a 
fourth. But this does not deserve the name of a 
conspiracy, for its object is not murder and revo- 
lution, nor does it arm itself with daggers and 
pistols.” 

“I should be curious to know the name of 
your fourth society,” cried Bonaparte, impa- 
tiently. 

“ I will satisfy your curiosity, general. This 
fourth secret society bears the name ‘ the Bona- 
partists,’ or — allow me to approach you closer, 
that the walls of the old palace may not hear the 
word — or ‘ the Imperialists.’ ” 

Bonaparte shrank back, and a glow of red 
passed fpr a moment over his cheeks. “ What 
do you mean by that ? ” 

“ I mean by that, general, what I have already 
said; your brow is made not to wear laurels 
alone, but a crown, and there is only one way to 
destroy the other three conspiracies — the way 
proposed by the fourth secret society. In order 
to make the efforts of the republicans and royal- 
ists ineffective, and to tread them under your 
feet, France needs an emperor.” 

“And do you want to make your manikin, 
Louis XYII., Emperor of France ? ” 


“No, general,” answered Fouche, solemnly^ 
“ no ; I want to make Consul Bonaparte Emperor 
of the French ! ” 

The consul trembled, and his eyes flashed 
through the apartment, the former cabinet of 
Louis XYL, as if he wanted to convince himself 
that no one had heard this dangerous word of the 
future. Then he slowly bent forward without 
meeting Fouche’s looks, which were intently 
fixed upon him. 

A pause ensued — a long, anxious pause. Then 
Bonaparte slowly raised his eye again, and now it 
was filled as with sunlight. 

“ Is your fourth secret society numerous ? ” he 
asked, with that magical smile w^hich won aU 
hearts. 

“ It comprises artists, poets, scholars, and above 
every thing else, officers and generals,” replied 
Fouche. “ It grows more numerous every day, 
and as fortunately I have only been deposed from 
my place of minister of police, but still remain a 
member of the senate of the republic, it has been 
my effort to gain over in the senate influential 
membei^ for my secret society of imperialists. 
If my hopes are crowned with success, the secret 
society will soon become an open one, and the 
senate will apply to you with a public request to 
put an end to all these conspiracies and intrigues, 
to place yourself at the head of France, and ac- 
cept the imperial crown which ‘ the senate offers 
you. But — ” 

“ I comprehend your ‘ but,’ Fouche,” interrupted 
Bonaparte, eagerly. “ You want to make your 
conditions. An imperial crown does not fall di- 
rect from heaven upon the head of a man ; there 
must be hands there to take it, and it might hap- 
pen that they would be crushed by the falling 
crown. They must be paid Tor their heroism, 
therefore. Let us suppose, then, that I give 
credence to all your stories, even that about the 
empire of the future — tell me, now, what you de- 
mand.” 

“General, if I show you and all France by 
facts that the country is rent by conspiracies, that 
the cancer of secret societies is eating into the 
very marrow of the land, and imperilling all its 


FOUCH^:. 


283 


institutions, will you confess to me then that I 
am better adapted to be the head of the police 
than M. Regnier d’Angely, who insists and dares 
to say to you that there are no secret societies in 
France ? ” 

“Prove to me by facts the existence of your 
conspiracies, and I will commission you to help 
me destroy this hydra’s head. Give me the 
proofs, and you shall be head of police again.” 

Fouche bowed. “You shall have the proofs, 
general, to-day — at once, provided that we thor- 
oughly understand each other. I am ambitious, 
general, and I have no wish to be driven back for 
a single day into nothingness, as I should be, if 
my enemies withdraw their confidence in me. 
Inow I am, at least, a member of the senate ; but 
if the senate is dissolved, and I should subse- 
quently be deposed again from the head of the 
police, I should be nothing but Fouche — Fouchd 
fallen out of favor. Voild tout! ” 

“No, not so,” said Bonaparte, with a smile. 
“ You will always be known as the murderer of 
the king ; that is a fine title for a republican, is it 
not ? ” 

“Ah, general, I see that you understand me,” 
cried Fouche: “We are now talking about a 
name, a position, a title for me. Provided that 
here in the Tuileries' a throne is reestablished, we 
must have a court again, men with orders, titles, 
and dignities.” 

“ It is true,” said Bonaparte, thoughtfully. 
“ The world continues to revolve in the same cir- 
cles of folly and vanity, and after making an ef- 
fort to withdraw from them, it falls back again 
into the old ruts. Men are nothing but actors, 
and every one wants to adorn himself with glis- 
tening rags, in order to take the first part, and 
have his name go upon the poster of history. 
Well, how would you be called, Fouche, if the 
drama of an empire should really be brought for- 
ward upon the great stage of the world ? ” 

“ I should like the title of a prince or duke, 
sire.” 

-Bonaparte could scarcely suppress the smile of 
satisfaction that played over his face. It was the 
first time that he had ever been addressed as king 


or emperor, and this “sire ” which Fouche dropped 
into the ear of Bonaparte like a sweet poison, 
flattered his senses and soothed him like delight- 
ful music. But the strength of his genius soon 
resumed its sway, and he broke out into a loud, 
merry laugh. 

“ Confess, Fouche,” he cried, “that it is comi- 
cal to hear the consul talking with a senator of 
the republic about an empire and ducal titles. 
Truly, if the strict republicans of your conspiracy 
number one should hear this, they would be justi- 
fied in accusing us 'US traitors and conspirators.” 

“We must get the start of them — we must ac- 
cuse them.” 

“ If we possess secure means to do so.” 

“I possess them, and I will give them to you. 
Consul Bonaparte, as soon as the emperor of the 
future assures me of a princely title, in addition 
to the chieftaincy of police.” 

“Very well,” said Bonaparte, laughing, “the 
emperor of the future promises you that as soon 
as he is able to bake a batch of these delicacies, 
he will put his chief of police in the oven and 
draw him out as a prince or a duke. The em- 
peror of the future gives you his word of honor 
that he will do it. A^eyou satisfied now, my lord 
republican ? ” 

“ Sire, completely satisfied,” said Fouche, bow- 
ing low. 

“ And now let us talk together seriously,” said 
Bonaparte. “ You have spoken of conspiracies ; 
you assert that they exist, but do not forget that 
you have promised me tangible proofs — understand 
me well, tangible ; that is, it is not enough for 
me to see the papers and the lists of conspirators 
who have escaped into foreign lands — I want per- 
sons, men of flesh and blood — traitors whom I 
may hang, not in effigy, but in reality, and who 
may serve as a warning example to the whole 
herd of conspirators, and put an end forever to 
this nonsense. I am wearied of being perpetually 
threatened by traitors, poisoned daggers, air-guns, 
plots, and intrigues, of all kinds. It is time to 
hunt down the chief men of these bravoes who 
have been sent here from England, Germany, 
Russia, and Italy, and I have had enough of illus- 


284 


MAKTE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


trating the old proverb, ‘ Hang the little thief and 
let the great one run.’ I mean to have the great 
thief and to hang him, for that is the only way of 
intimidating these fellows and inspiring them with 
respect.” 

“ Sire, you shall have your great thieves,” said 
Fouche, with a smile. 

“ Give them into my hands, and I promise you 
they shall never escape,” cried Bonaparte, eager- 
ly. “ It is high time to make an example, and 
show these people at last that I claim the right 
of paying back. The Count de Lille and the 
Duke d’Enghien are always egging their con- 
spirators upon me ; they appear to have no other 
aim than to get rid of me, and are unwearied with 
their daggers, infernal machines, and counter-plots. 
But their own persons, and those of their highest 
helpers, always remain beyond reach. They ar- 
range their plans always at a safe distance, and 
risk nothing by this ; for, if we take some of their 
subordinate tools and punish them, they make an 
outcry about barbarity and cruelty, and appeal to 
their sacred right of using all means to regain 
their inheritance, and reestablish the throne in 
France. They do not deny that they would have 
no conscientious scruples about shedding my 
blood. Now, why should I have any about 
shedding theirs? Blood for blood, that is the 
natural and unavoidable law of retaliation, and 
woe to him who lays claim to it ! These Bour- 
bons do so. I have never injured one of them 
personally; a great nation has placed me at 
its head ; my blood is -worth as much as theirs, 
and it is time at last that I make it al pari with 
theirs. I will no longer serve as a target for all 
murderers, and then afterward only find the dag- 
ger, instead of seizing the hands that ply it. Let 
me once have hold of the hands, and all the dag- 
gers will disappear forever 1 ” 

“I will give these hands into your power, or, at 
least, some fingers of them.” 

“ I want them all,” cried Bonaparte, eagerly, — 

all the fingers, all the hands. You have spoken 
of three different conspiracies. I want the lead- 
ers of them, and then all others may run. If the 
hydra loses its three heads, it must at last die. 


So give me the three heads, that of the republh 
cans and of the two royalist parties. The head 
of conspiracy number two I know ; it is the Count 
de Lille. He is the sly spider who always with- 
draws behind his nets, but I know the hand, too, 
that is set in motion by this head ; it is the Duke 
d’Enghien. He is an untiring conspirator, wholly 
occupied with infernal machines and daggers for 
me. Ah ! let him take care of himself, the little 
Duke d’Enghien. If I take him, I will exercise 
the right of retaliation upon him, for I am deter- 
mined to have peace. We now come to your 
conspiracy number three, to your Dms ex machina^ 
the so-called Louis XYII. This Dem really exists ?” 

“ Yes, general, he exists.” 

Bonaparte laughed aloud, but his laughter 
sounded like a threat. “I have heard of this 
story,” he said. “ The good-natured Kleber be- 
lieved it, and, after his death, a paper was given 
to me, written by him, and directed to me, which 
stated that his so-called nephew Louis was the 
heir of the King of France, and implored me ear- 
nestly to take the orphan of the Temple under 
my protection. I instituted inquiries for him at 
once ; it was after the battle of Marengo, and 
this Monsieur Louis was, till then, adjutant of 
General Desaix.” 

“ Yes, general, adjutant of Desaix, down to 
the battle of Marengo — that is, to the death of 
Desaix.” 

“ If I mistake not, his adjutant was wounded 
in the battle, and lay at the hospital in Alessan- 
dria.” 

“ It is so, general. I wonder how closely you 
have been informed respecting the fortunes of 
this young man.” 

“ From that time aU trace of him has been lost, 
and all my inquiries have proved in vain. The 
adjutant of Desaix, who fought so bravely, and 
who bore my dying comrade in his arms, deserved 
advancement, and I wanted to give it to him, and 
therefore searched for him, but in vain. I be- 
lieved him dead, and now you come and tell me 
about a conspiracy in favor of Louis XYII. This 
young pretender is still alive, then, and there are 
childlike souls who believe his story, are there ? ” 


FOUCHE. 


285 


“General, he says little, for he is very silent 
and reticent, but he has testimonials which speak 
for him, and which show that his story is not 
an idle tale, but a fragment of history. His 
papers give clear and undeniable evidence of his 
lineage and the course of his life.” 

“ I should like to see these papers once,” said 
the consul., 

“ He never lets them go out of his hands, for 
he knows very well that they are his security for 
a crown.” 

“ Then bring me the man himself, and then I 
shall have him and his papers,” said Bonaparte, 
with a growl like a lion’s. “ Is not he the head of 
the conspiracy ? ” 

“ Yes, general, the head of a conspiracy which 
I have conducted, because I meant to have all 
the threads in my hands, if I was to see clearly. 
In order to prove the royalists, I threw them this 
bait, and many of them have taken the hook and 
come over to the young king. In this way I 
have made a division in the ranks of the royalists, 
and the Count de Lille already sees the conse- 
quences. The so-called orphan of the Temple has 
at this hour no enemy who hates him more than 
the Count de Lille.” 

“ But this enmity of the Count de Lille van- 
ishes like a glow-worm in the darkness. I want 
tangible proofs by which I can arrest my enemies. 
Can you give them to me ? ” 

“ General, it will not be difficult to do this. 
We will speak of it hereafter. Allow me first a 
word about this dangerous adjutant of Besaix, 
Colonel Louis. You said, general, that you made 
futile efforts to gain information about this inter- 
esting and brave young man. Those efforts were 
made in the years when M. Begnier d’Angely was 
chief of police, in which my enemies succeeded in 
withdrawing the confidence of the First Consul 
.from me. But had I been chief of police at that 
time, I should have been able to tell you that 
the young man whom you were seeking, and 
respecting whom you obtained no information, 
was living here in Paris.” 

■ “ What ! ” cried Bonaparte, in amazement. 
“ This so-called Louis XYII. in Paris, then V ” 


“ General, he is still here ; he has been living in 
Paris for about four years — about as long as M. 
Begnier has been head of police.” 

“ And Begnier has told me nothing about it ! ” 
Has he not known that so dangerous a person 
was living in Paris ? ” 

Fouche shrugged his shoulders. “ Monsieur 
Begnier — who doubts the existence of secret socie- 
ties in France, and tells you that the assassins who 
have so often of late imperilled your life have all 
been sent hither from foreign parts by the pretend- 
ers to the crown, and that there are no conspira- 
tors in France — Monsieur Begnier could not of 
course know the head of this secret society. He 
left them to follow iheir own pleasures unhindered 
here in Paris. But I know them, and I give 
you my word of honor, general, that the so-called 
nephew of Kleber is living here in Paris. Di- 
rectly after his arrival he came to me, and I 
handed to him the papers and documents which 
Desaix intrusted tome, and which I had solemnly 
sworn to deliver to his adjutant Louis. The 
young man gave me his confidence, and when I 
spoke to him regretfully and with enthusiasm 
about his father and his mother, and addressed 
him as ‘his majesty,’ I won his love. He 
opened his heart to me, confessed that he was 
Louis XYII., and asked my counsel and help. I 
promised him both, and showed myself to him in 
a very compliant and devoted mood. My first 
counsel was, that he should live incognito under 
a borrowed name. In order that this might be 
possible, I gave him the name for his incognito, 
and had all the necessary documents preparea, 
the certificate of his birth, baptism, the marriage 
of his parents, and the will of Lis relatives.” 

“And all these documents were false and 
forged ? ” said Bonaparte, in amazement. 

“ There are everywhere pliable public officials 
in France,” replied Fouch^ with a smile. “I 
did not content myself with procuring for my 
'protege the papers which insured him an honor- 
able name, respectable family position, and a life 
without care ; I did much more for him. I fol- 
lowed the efforts already related with others. I 
had a certificate of the death of M. Louis pre- 


286 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


pared, so as to give him a passport out of life. 
In order to protect himself from every injury, I 
told him that he, as the adjutant of Desaix, must 
pass as dead. He approved of it, and I took the 
pains to procure from the hospital at Alessandria 
a duly signed and sealed certificate that Colonel 
Louis, the adjutant of General Desaix, died of his 
wounds there.” 

“ Good God ! ” cried Bonaparte, “ is every thing 
in life to be bought and sold thus ? ” 

“Yes, general, everything — ^loyalty and love, 
life and death. I have caused the son of the 
King of France to die, and then rise again — and 
all with gold. But, when the certificate arrived, 
a change had occurred in my relations. I had 
been removed from office, and Regnier was my 
successor. I kept the cerj^ificate in my posses- 
sion ; but, in order to secure my 'proieg'e against 
what might befall me in case of my death, I wrote 
to him that I had received the papers, and that 
he would live without danger in Paris, under his 
assumed name. This letter I signed with my 
whole name, and set my seal to it, that in case of 
need it might be of service to him.” 

“ Fouche, you are a sly fox,” said Bonaparte, 
with a laugh. “ It is easier to get out of the way 
of a cannon-ball than out of your snares. One 
might say to you, in the words of the King of 
Prussia, ‘ God defend me from my friends, from 
my enemies I can defend myself ! ’ According to 
this you have caused Colonel Louis to die for 
friendship’s sake, and rise again under another 
name.” 

“ Yes, general, that is it ! Colonel Louis — that 
is, the rightful king, Louis XYII. — is a tool in 
my hands, which I hold as a check to all parties, 
and which I can hold up or withdraw according 
as it pleases me. At present my game is not 
merely to bring disunion and hatred into the 
ranks of the royalists, but to bring over many 
republicans who have a soft heart, to be zealous 
partisans of the young and unfortunate king.” 

“And afterward,” said Bonaparte, with a 
sterner tone, “you might make use of this in- 
strument to intimidate that fourth party of which 
you spoke before — the Bonapartists. But you 


have been mistaken, Fouchd ; this reckoning does 
not do — your cunning has overreached itself. 
You do not terrify me; and if it could really 
happen that the French nation should offer me 
an imperial crown, at the same time that I should 
accept it, I should put my foot on the neck of 
all rebels and pretenders. With a single tread I 
would crush them all. I want no parties, no po 
litical factions ; I want to bring all these risings 
“and agitations to silence. There shall be no 
secret societies in France ; and against each and 
every conspirator, whatever his rank may be, I 
will bring from this time forth the Avhole weight 
of the law. Mark this, Fouche ! I mean to 
make an end of all parties, and only when you 
shall give their chiefs into my hand — not for my 
personal vengeance, for I cherish no vengeance 
against those cowardly worms of conspirators, 
but for the righteous punishment and retaliatory 
laws of France — only when you are able, by one 
grand cowp^ and one well-founded charge, to de- 
stroy all conspiracies, and bring all secret coali- 
tions to the light, only then shall you become 
chief of police — only then will the future emperor 
give you the title of duke.” 

“ General, I^build on your word, and I am sure 
of becoming chief of police and duke. We will 
put an end to all conspiracies.” 

“ And to the Monsieur Louis, too,” cried Bo- 
naparte, eagerly. “It is a disagreeable and 
troublesome figure. So long as he lives he would 
live in the ermine of the imperial cloak like a 
troublesome insect, which always stings and 
pricks. One must not allow such insects to find 
their way into his fur, and this Monsieur Louis 
must be put out of the way once for all. I hope 
he has entered deeply enough into the conspir- 
acy, not to come out of it again with a whole 
skin ! ” 

“ General, I have told you already, that day be- 
fore yesterday his dependants saluted him, in a 
secret gathering, as their king. It is true, in- 
deed, that the poor little fellow strongly opposed 
it, and obstinately refused to accept all honors, 
but the fact remains unchanged.” 

“ And on the ground of this fact shall he be 


FOUCHK. 


287 


apprehended,” cried Bonaparte, with a threaten- 
ing voice. “ There must be an example made, 
and this Louis is a suitable person for it. He 
must be the hete de souffrance for all the rest. He 
is the head of a conspiracy ; we will crush this 
head, and the limbs will fall of themselves. 
Besides the sensitive souls who love nurses’ 
stories and believe in every thing, there will be 
no one who will, weep for him. Xo one will 
lament his death, but he will be a warning to all. 
Direct yourself to this, Fouche, and set all the 
infernal machines of your intrigues in operation 
that we may put an end to conspiracy.” 

“ General, only one thing is wanting ; it is that 
I be at the head of the police, and have the power 
in my hands to make my infernal machines ef- 
fectual.” 

But I have told you that I will appoint you 
as minister only when you give me incontroverti- 
ble proofs that your conspiracies are not the 
fabric of your own phantasy.” 

“ V ery well, general, now that we are at one, 
1 am prepared to give you these proofs. I have 
told you that the royalists and republicans have 
united for the purpose of taking your life. They 
have chosen fifty men by ballot, in foreign parts, 
who are to come to Paris and accomplish here 
the great work of your destruction. These fifty 
assassins have arrived in Paris, and their chief 
men had an interview yesterday with the chiefs 
of the conspiracies here.” 

“ Fouch4 ! ” cried Bonaparte, with a threaten- 
ing voice, “ think well what you are saying. 
You are playing for the stake of your own head ! 
If these fifty assassins are creatures of your own 
imagination, it is you who will have to pay for it.” 

“ These fifty men have been in Paris since the 
day before yesterday,” rejoined Fouche, quietly. 
“ They came hither by different roads, and appear- 
ing like simple travellers, and yesterday they had 
their first interview with the chief of the republi- 
can party.” 

“Who is this chief? Name him, or I will call 
you a liar and impostor ! ” 

“ This chief,” said Fouche, slowly, and measur- 
» ing every word, “ this chief is General Moreau.” 


Bonaparte uttered a low cry, and ashy paleness 
suffused his cheeks ; he pressed his lips together, 
and his eyes flamed out such darts of rage that 
even Fouche trembled and lowered his gaze. 

“Moreau,” muttered Bonaparte, after a long 
pause, “ Moreau a conspirator, a traitor ! Moreau 
in an alliance witn assassins whom the royalists 
are sending out against me ! I knew very well 
that he was my enemy, but I did not think that 
his enmity would lead him to be a murderer ! ” 

He walked up and down with quick steps, his 
hands folded behind his back, then stopped short 
before Fouche and looked him full in the face. 

“ Fouche, do you abide by your assertion, that 
Moreau is a conspirator ? ” 

“ I abide by it, general.” 

“And those fifty assassins, whom the royalists 
have sent, are in Paris ? ” 

“ Yes, general, they are in Paris, and Georges 
and Pichegru are at their head.” 

“ Fouche,” cried Bonaparte, clinching his fist 
and raising it threateningly, “ Fouche, so sure as 
God lives, I will have you hanged as a traitor if 
you have lied ! ” 

“ General, as surely as God lives, I have spoken 
the truth. I came here to show you what I am, 
and what Kegnier is. I have waited here till the 
whole net of these conspiracies should be spread 
out and be fully complete. The time has come 
when I must speak ; and now I say to you, gen- 
eral, take some steps, for there is danger on 
foot ! ” 

Bonaparte, trembling with emotion, had thrown 
himself into an arm-chair, and took, as was his 
custom in moments of the greatest . excitement, 
his penknife from the writing-desk, and began to 
whittle on the back of the chair. 

Fouche stood leaning against the wall, aud 
looked with complete calmness and an invisible 
smile at this singular occupation of the general, 
when the door of the cabinet was opened, and the 
Mameluke Eoustan appeared at the entrance. 

“ Consul,” he said, softly, “ Councillor Real is 
again here, and pressingly desires an audience.” 

Bonaparte rose, and threw away the knife 
“ Real ! ” he cried in a loud tone. 


288 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


The man who was summoned immediately ap- 
peared at the open door — a tall, grave personage, 
with a face so pale and distorted that Bonaparte 
noticed it, despite his great agitation. 

“ What is it. Real ? ” he asked, eagerly. “ Have 
you spoken with the condemned man ? ” 

“Yes, general, I have spoken with him,” whis- 
pered Real, with pale lips. 

“ And it is as I said, is it not ? This Doctor 
Querolle has only pretended to be able to make 
great disclosures, only to prolong his own life a 
few hours. He has poisoned his wife, in order to 
marry his mistress, and the poisoner is executed.” 

“ General,” cried Fouche, almost with an air of 
joy, “ I knew Querolle, and I knew that his wife 
poisoned herself. Querolle is not a poisoner.” 

“ What is he then, M. Omniscience ? ” 

“ General, he is a conspirator ! ” 

“A conspirator!” repeated Bonaparte, and 
now his troubled face turned again to the coun- 
cillor. “Real, what do you know? What did 
the condemned man say to you ? ” 

“ Consul, he swore that he was innocent of the 
death of his wife, but he acknowledged himself a 
member of a conspiracy, the object of which is to 
murder General Bonaparte. He asserts that the 
royalists and republicans have allied themselves ; 
that fifty emissaries of the Count de Lille and the 
Duke d’Enghien, Pichegru and Georges at their 
head, have crept into Paris ; that they had an in- 
terview yesterday with General Moreau, and with 
the so-called King Louis XVII., who is secreted in 
Paris, and that at this hour those fifty men are 
prowling around the streets of the city, and are 
watching the Tuileries, waiting for an opportunity 
to kill the First Consul.” 

The troubled eye of Bonaparte turned slowly 
from the pale face of Councillor Real to the calm, 
sagacious face of Fouche, which guarded itself 
well from expressing any token of triumph and 
satisfaction. The consul then walked slowly 
through the room, and wdth his foot pushed open 
the door dealing into the great reception-room, 
in which, at this hour every day, all the dignita- 
ries of the republic were assembled, to receive the 
orders of Bonaparte. 


“ Murat 1 ” cried Bonaparte, loudly ; and at once 
the person summoned. General Murat, at that 
time governor of Paris, appeared at the door of 
the cabinet. 

“ Murat,” said Bonaparte, in the tones in which 
he issued his commands on the battle-field, “ give 
orders at once that the gates of Paris be closed, 
and that no stranger be allowed to go out of the 
city till you have further orders. You will come 
to me in an hour, and receive a proclamation to 
your soldiers, which you will sign ; have it printed 
and posted at the street-corners of Paris. Make 
all these preparations ! Go ! ” 

Murat withdrew from the room with a saluta- 
tion of deference, and now the commanding voice 
of Bonaparte summoned his chief adjutant from 
the reception-room. 

“ Duroc,” said the First Consul, with calm, al- 
most solemn voice, “ you will go with twelve sol- 
diers in pursuit of General Moreau, and arrest 
him wherever you find him.” 

The noble, open face of Duroc grew pale, and 
put on an expression of horror and amazement. 
“ General,” he whispered, “ I beg that — ” 

But this time Bonaparte would not listen to the 
soothing words of his favorite. 

“ No replies ! ” he thundered. “ You have only 
to obey ! Nothing more 1 ” 

Duroc, pale and agitated, withdrew, and Bona- 
parte closed the door of the cabinet. “Real,” 
he said, “ return to the prison of the condemned 
man ; take him his pardon, and bring him to me, 
that I may hear him myself. Hasten ! ” 

Real withdrew, and Bonaparte and Fouche re- 
mained alone. 

“ You have given your proofs, Fouche, and now 
I believe you. When wolves are to be hunted 
down you are a good bloodhound, and we will be- 
gin the chase. I make you from this moment 
chief of the secret police ; your first duty will be 
to bring this matter to an end, and help me to 
tear to pieces the whole murderous web, your re- 
ward being that I will nominate you again minis- 
ter of police.* I will fulfil my promise so soon 

* The appointment of Fouch6 as the chief of police 
took place in June of the year 1804, 


JOSEPHINE. 


289 


as you shall have made good yours, and put me 
in possession of the chief conspirators.” 

“ You have just arrested Moreau, general,” re- 
plied Pouchy, deferentially. “ I give you my word 
that in a few hours Pichegru and Georges will be 
apprehended.” 

“ You forget the chief person,” cried Bonaparte, 
over whose brazen forehead a thunder-cloud 
seemed to pass. “ You ft)rget the caricature of 
buried royalty, the so-called King Louis XYII. 
Hush ! I tell you I will have this man. I will 
draw out the fangs of this royal adder, so that he 
cannot bite any more! Bring the man before 
me. The republic is an angry goddess, and de- 
mands a royal offering. Give this impostor into 
my hands, or something worse will happen ! Go, 
and I advise you to bring me, before the sun goes 
down, the tidiugs that this fabled King Louis is 
arrested, or the sun of your good fortune is set 
forever 1 Now away 1 Go out through the little 
I corridor, and then through the secret gate — you 
i know the way. Go!” 

Fouche did not dare to contradict the impera- 
tive order, but softly and hastily moved toward 
I the curtain which led to the gloomy anteroom, 

! and thence through a door, which only those ini- 
I tiated knew haw to open, and which led to the 
) little corridor. 

; But scarcely had Fouch^ entered this little dis- 
mal room, when a hand was laid upon his arm, 
and a woman’s voice whispered to him : 

“ I must speak to you — at once ! Come ! this 
way ! ” 

The hand drew him forward to the wall, a door 
sprang open without sound, and the voice whis- 
pered : “ Fgur stairs down. Be careful ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIl. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Fouche did not hesitate ; he followed his guide 
down the little staircase, along the dark corridor, 
and up another short staircase. He had recog- 

19 


nized the voice, and knew that his leader was no 
other than Josephine, the wife of the First Con- 
sul. 

Through the secret door at the end of the cor- 
ridor they entered a small and gloomy antecham- 
ber, exactly like the one which adjoined the cabi- 
net of the consul, and from it Josephine ushered 
Fouch4. into her cabinet. 

“ You will say nothing to Bonaparte about this 
secret way, Fouche,” said Josephine, with a gen- 
tle, supplicatory tone. “ He does not know of it. 
I have had it made without his knowledge while 
he was in Boulogne last year. Will you swear to 
me that you will not reveal it ? ” 

“ I do swear, madame.” 

“ God knows that I have not had it made out 
of curiosity to overhear Bonaparte,” continued 
Josephine. “But it is necessary sometimes for 
me to know what is going on. and that when the 
general is angry I should hasten to him to calm 
him and turn aside bis wrath. I have warded off* 
many a calamity since this private way was opened, 
and I have been able to overhear Bonaparte. But 
what have I been compelled to listen to to-day ! 
Oh, Fouch4, it was God Himself who impelled me 
to listen ! I was with him when you were an- 
nounced, and I suspected that your visit purported 
something unusual, something dreadful. I have 
heard all, Fouch4 — all, I tell you ! I know that 
his life is threatened, that fifty daggers are di- 
rected toward him. 0 God ! this perpetual fear 
and excitement will kill me ! I have no peace 
of mind, no rest more ! Since the unhappy day 
when we left our dear little house to live in the 
Tuileries, since that day there has been an end to 
all joy ! Why did we do it? why did we not re- 
main in our little Luxembourg? why have we been 
persuaded to live in the palace of the kings ? ” 

“ It is proper for the greatest man in France to 
live in the house where the departed race of kings 
once had their home,” replied Fouche. 

“ Oh, yes,” sighed Josephine. “ I know these 
tricks of speech, with which you hav^- turned the 
head of my poor Bonaparte. Oh ! you, you, his 
flatterer, you who urged him on, will bear the 
blame if misfortune breaks in upon us ! You 


I 


290 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


have intoxicated him with the incense of adula- 
tion ; you pour into his veins daily and hourly the 
sweet poison which is to destroy our happiness 
and our peace ! He was so good, so cheerful, so 
happy, my Bonaparte ! He was contented with 
the laurels which victory laid upon his brow, but 
you continued to whisper in his ear that a crown 
would add new grace to his laurels. You flattered 
his ambition ; and w^hat was quietly sleeping at 
the bottom of his heart, and what I hushed with 
my kisses and with my hand, that you took all 
efforts to bring out into the light : his vanity — his 
love of power ! Oh, Fouche ! you are wicked, 
cruel, and pitiless ! I hate, I abhor you all, for 
you are the murderers of my Bonaparte ! ” 

She spoke all this softly, with quick breath, 
while the tears were streaming over her beautiful 
face, and her whole frame trembled with emotion. 
She then sank, wholly overcome, upon a lounge, 
and pressed her small hands, sparkling with jew- 
els, over her eyes. 

“ Madame, you are unjust,” replied Fouche, 
softly. If you have overheard my conversation 
with the First Consul, you are aware that the 
direct object of my coming was to save him from 
murderers, and to insure his precious life.” 

“ And, moreover, to pour into his ear the poison 
of a future imperial crown ! ” said Josephine, in- 
dignantly. “ Oh, I know it ! With talk of con- 
spiracies and of daggers you urged him on. You 
want him to be an emperor, that you may be a 
prince or duke ! I see it all, and I cannot pre- 
vent it, for he no longer listens to me, he no 
longer heeds the voice of his Josephine, only that 
of his ambitious flatterers, and he will put on the 
imperial crown and complete our misfortune ! 
Oh! I knew it! This imperial crown will ruin 
us. It was prophesied to me in my youth that I 
should be an empress, but it was added that it 
would be for no long time. And yet I should like 
to live, and I should like to be happy still ! ” 

“ You will be so, madame,” said Fouche, with 
a smile. “ It is always good fortune to wear an im- 
perial crown, and your beautiful head is worthy to 
bear one.” 

“'No, no,’ ?he cried, angrily. “ Do not try me 


with your flatteries ! I am contented with being 
a beloved and happy wife ; I desire no crown. 

The crowned heads that have dwelt in the Tiiile 
ries have become the prey of destruction, and the 
pearls of their diadems have been changed to 
tears ! But what advantage is it that I should 
say all this to you ? It is all in' vain, in vain ! . I 
did not bring you to talk of this. It was some- 
thing entirely different. Listen, Fouche, I cannot 
prevent Bonaparte’s becoming an emperor, but 
you shall not make him a regicide ! I will not 
suffer it ! By Heaven, and all the holy angels, I 
will not suffer it ! ” 

“ I do not understand you, madame. I do not ; 
know what you mean.” ^ 

“ Oh, you understand me very well, Fouche. : 
You know that I am speaking of Ying Louis 
XYII.” 

“Ah, madame, you are speaking of the im- 
postor, who gives himself out to be the ‘orphan ; 
of the Temple.’ ” 

“ He is it, Fouch4. I know it, I am acquainted i 
with the history of his flight. I was a prisoner 

* 

in the Conciergerie at the same time with Toulan, ■ 

the queen’s loyal servant. He knew my devotion I 

to the unhappy Marie Antoinette; he intrusted. to i 

me his secret of the dauphin’s escape. Later,' | 
when I was released, Tallien and Barras confirmed j 

the story of his flight, and informed me that he i: 

was secreted by the Prince de Conde. I have ■ 

known it all, and I tell you I knew who Kleber’s j 

adjutant was ; I inquired for him after he disap- J 

peared at the battle of Marengo, and when my 
agents told me that the young king died there, I 
wore mourning and prayed for him. And, now 
that I learn that the son of my beautiful queen .! 

is still alive, shall I suffer him to die like a ; 

traitor ? No, never ! Fouche, I tell you I will | 

never suffer it ; I will not have this unfortunate ^ 

young man sacrificed ! You must save him — I | 

wdll have it so ! ” ^ 

“ I ! ” cried Fouche, in amazement. “But you 
know that it is impossible, for you have heard ray / 
conversation with the consul. He himself said, 
‘The republic demands a royal victim. If it is 
not this so-called King Louis, let it be the Duke 


JOSEPHINE. 


291 


d’Enghien, for a victim must fall, in order to in- 
timidate the royalists, and bring peace at last.’ ” 

“But I will not have you bring human vic- 
tims,” cried Josephine; “the republic shall no 
longer be a cruel Moloch, as it was in the days of 
the guillotine. You shall, and you must, save 
the son of Queen Marie Antoinette. I desire to 
have peace in my conscience, that I may live 
without reproach, and be happier perhaps than 
now.” 

“ But it is impossible,” insisted Fouch^. “ You 
have heard yourself that if, before the sun goes 
down, Louis be not imprisoned, the sun of my 
good fortune will have set.” 

“And I told you, Fouche, that if you do this — 
if you become a regicide a second time — I will be 
your unappeasable enemy your whole life long ; I 
will undertake to avenge on you the death of the 
queen and he^ son ; I will follow your every step 
with my hate, and will not rest till I have over- 
thrown you. And you know well that Bonaparte 
loves me, that I have influence with him, and 
that what 1 mean to do, I accomplish at last by 
prayers, tears, and frowns. So do not exasperate 
me, Fouch4 ; do not make me your irreconcilable 
enemy. Save the son of the king whom you 
killed, conciliate the shades of his unhappy pa- 
rents. Fouche, we are in the cabinet of the 
queen! Here she often tarried, here she often 
pressed her son to her heart, and asked 
God’s blessing on him. Fouch6, the spirit of 
Marie Antoinette is with us, and she will know it 
if you in pity spare the life of her son. Marie 
Antoinette will accuse you at the throne of God, 
and plead with God to show you no compassion, 
if you refuse to be merciful to her son. Fouch6, 
in the name of the queen — on my knees — I im- 
plore you, save her son ! ” 

And Josephine, her face bathed in tears, sank 
before him and raised her folded hands sup- 
pliantly to Fouche. The minister, deeply moved, 
pale with the recollections which Josephine 
awakened within him, stooped down to her, and 
bade her arise ; and when she refused, and begged 
and threatened, and wept, his obstinacy was 
at last touched, or perhaps his prudence, which 


counselled him to make a friend, rather than an 
enemy, out of the all-powerful wife of the future 
emperor. 

“Rise, madame,” he said. “What mortal is 
able to resist your requests, since Bonaparte him- 
self cannot? I will save your protege'^ whatever 
shall come to me afterward from it.” 

She sprang up, and in the wildness of her joy 
threw her beautiful arms around Fouche’s neck, 
and kissed him. “ Fouch6,” she said, “ T give 
you this kiss in the name of Queen Marie An- 
toinette. It is a kiss of forgiveness, and of 
blessing. You swear to me that you will save 
him ? ” 

“I swear it, madame ! ” 

“And I swear to you that as soon as he is 
saved, and Bonaparte’s anger can no longer reach 
him, I will confess all to my husband, and put it 
in such a light that Bonaparte shall thank and 
reward you. Now tell me, how you will save 
him.” 

“I shall only be able if you will help me, 
madame.” 

“ I am ready for any thing — that you know 
well. Tell me what I shall do.” 

“You must yourself direct a few lines to the 
young man, conjuring him in the name of his 
mother to fly, to save himself from the anger of 
the First Consul — to leave Europe.” 

“Oh! Fouche, how sly you are!” said Jose- 
phine, sadly. “You want my handwriting, in 
order to justify yourself to the First Consul in 
case of emergency. Yery good. I will write the 
billet.” 

She hastened to her table, dashed a few words 
upon paper, and then passed the note to Fouch6. 
“Read it,” she said; “it contains all that is ne- 
cessary, does it not ? ” 

“Yes, madame; and you have written in such 
beautiful and moving words, that the young man 
will be melted, and will obey you. Will you now 
have the goodness to put the note in an envelope 
and to address it ?” 

She folded it, and put it into an envelope. 
“ To whom shall I address it ?” she then asked. 

“ Address it to King Louis XYII.” 


292 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


She did so with a quick stroke of the pen and 
handed the letter to Fouch4. “ Take it,” she 
said, “it is your justification. And in order that 
you may be entirely secure,” she continued, with 
a slight smile, “ retain this letter yourself. What 
I would say to this young man I would rather 
communicate by word of mouth.” 

“ How,” cried Fouch4, “ you want — ” 

“ To see and speak with the king,” she said, 
sorrowfully, “ to beg his forgiveness for myself 
and Bonaparte. Hush ! do not oppose me, I am 
resolved upon it. I want to seethe young man.” 

“ But he cannot come here, madame — here, into 
the very den of the lion.” 

“No, not here, into the desecrated palace of 
the kings,” she answered, bitterly. “ No, he can- 
not come here — I shall go to him.” 

“You are jesting, madame, it is impossible. 
You, the wife of the First Consul, you will — ” 

“I want to fulfil a duty of gratitude and 
of loyalty, Fouche. In my heart I still feel my- 
self the subject of the queen. Let me follow the 
*yall of my heart ! Listen ! My carriage stands ready. 
I was intending to drive to my friend Madame 
Tallien. I will take a pleasure-drive instead. In 
the Bois de Boulogne I will cause the carriage to 
stop, send it away, and return on foot. You 
win await in there with a fiacre and take me to 
the king.” 

“It shall be so,” said Fouche. “Your will 
shall be my law. I only ask that you hasten, for 
you know well that I have much to do to-day. I 
shall take advantage of the time to procure for 
the young man the necessary passports for 
travel. But, madame, you must help him leave 
the city. For you know that the gates are all 
closed.” 

“ I will tell Bonaparte that I am troubled to 
be in the city, now that it is so shut in. I will 
drive out to St. Cloud. His carriage can follow 
mine, and if the gate-keeper puts hinderances in 
the way, I will command him to let Louis pass. 
Now -let us hasten ! ” 

An hour later Josephine, after dismissing her 
equipage with the servants, entered the fiacre 
which was waiting for her near the fountain. 


Fouche received her there, and was unwearied in 
his complaints of the poor carriage which the 
wife of the First Consul must use. 

Josephine smiled, “My dear sir,” she said, 
“ there have been times when I should have been 
very proud and very happy to have had such a 
fiacre as this, and not to have been compelled to 
walk through the muddy streets of Paris. Let it 
be as it is ! The present days of superfluity have 
not made me proud, and I have a vivid recollection 
of the past. But tell me, Fouche, whither are we 
driving, and where does the young king live ? ” 
“We are driving, if you graciously approve of 
it, to my house, and I have brought the young 
man there, for in his own house he is no longer 
safe. I have had it surrounded by agents of the 
secret police, with orders to arrest him on his re- 
turn. He will, of course, not return, and it will be 
easier to assume the appearance that he received 
an intimation of his peril and escaped in season. 
But here we are before my door, and if you will 
draw the thick veil which happily you have fas- 
tened to your bonnet, carefully before your face, 
I hope that no one will see that the most beauti- 
ful lady in Paris honors my house with her dis- 
tinguished presence.” 

Josephine made no reply to this flattery, but 
drew the black lace veil closely over her face, 
and hastened to leave the fiacre, and entered the 
house. 

“ Fouche,” she whispered, as she ascended the 
staircase, “ my heart beats as violently as it did 
when I drove to the Tuileries to be presented to 
Marie Antoinette, It was the first time that I 
spoke with the Queen of France.” 

“And now, madame,” said Fouche, with a 
smile, “you will speak with the last King of 
France.” 

“ Does he know who I am ? ” 

“ No, madame ; I have left it to you to inform 
him. Here we are at the saloon — he is within ! ” 
“ Wait only a moment, Fouche. I must col- 
lect myself. My heart beats dreadfully. Now, 
now you may open the door ! ” 

They entered the little saloon. Josephine stood 
still near the door, and while she hastily removed 


JOSEPHINE. 


293 


her bonnet and the thick veil and handed them 
to Fouche, her large, brilliant, brown eyes were 
turned to the young man who stood in the win- 
dow-niche, his hands calmly folded over his 
breast. In this attitude, with the calm look of 
his face, the gentle glance of his blue eyes, he 
bore so close a resemblance to the pictures which 
represented Louis XYI. in his youth, that Jose- 
phine could not repress a cry of surprise, and 
hastened forward to the young man, who now 
advanced out of the window recess. 

“ Madame,” he said, bowing low before this 
beautiful and dignified lady whom he did not 
know, but whose sympathizing face made his 
heart tremble — “ madame, doubtless you are the 
lady whom M. Fouche said I might expect to 
meet here.” 

“Yes, I am she,” replied Josephine, with a 
voice trembling with emotion, her eyes, flooded 
with tears, all the while being fixed on the grave, 
youthful face which brought back so many memo- 
ries of the past. “ I have come to see you and to 
bring you the greetings of a man whom you 
loved, who revered you, and who died blessing 
you.” 

“ Of whom do you speak ? ” asked Louis, turn- 
ing pale. 

“ Men called him Toulan,” whispered Josephine. 
“ Queen Marie Antoinette termed him Fidele.” 

“ Fiddle ! ” cried Louis, in a tone of anguish. 
“ Fid^e is dead ! — my deliverer, he whose fidelity 
and bravery released me from my dreadful prison. 
Oh, madame, what sad thoughts do you bring 
back with his name ! ” 

Josephine turned with a triumphant look to 
Fouche, who was still standing behind her in the 
neighborhood of the door. Her look said, “You 
see he is no traitor, he has stood the proof.” 

Fouche understood the language of this look 
perfectly, and a smile played over his features. 
Then Josephine turned again to the young man. 

“You did not know that Toulan was dead?” 
she asked, softly. 

“How could I know it?” he cried, bitterly. 
“ I was taken at that time to a solitary castle, 
where I remained several years, and then I went 


to Germany, and from that time I have always 
lived in foreign parts. Since I have been in Paris 
I have made the effort to learn something about 
him, but no one could inform me, and so I solaced 
myself with the hope that he had really gone to 
America, for that was his object, as the other 
gentleman who assisted me in my release in- 
formed me at that time.” 

“ This other gentleman,” said Josephine, softly, 
“was the Baron de Jarjayes, and the child who 
was carried into the Temple was the — ” 

“ The son of the Count de Frotte,” rejoined 
Louis. 

“Fouch4, it is he!” cried Josephine. “ It is 
the son of my noble, unfortunate Queen Marie An- 
toinette. — Oh, sire, let me testify my homage to 
you, as becomes a subject when she stands before 
her king. Sire, I bow my knee before you, and I 
would gladly pour out my whole life in tears, and 
with each of these tears beg your forgiveness for 
France, for us all.” 

And the beautiful, passionate creole sank upon 
her knee, and raised her tearful eyes to the young 
man who, perplexed and blushing, gazed at her, 
then hastily stooped to her and conjured her to 
rise. 

“ Not, sire,” she cried, “ until you tell me that 
you have forgiven me — that you have forgiven us 
all.” 

“ I forgive you ? Wliat have I to forgive in 
you? Monsieur Fouche, who is this lady who 
knows me and my destinies, and who brings me 
greetings from Fiddle ? What have I to forgive 
in her ? Who is she ? Tell me her name ? ” 

“ Monsieur,” said Fouche, slowly approaching, 
“ this lady is — ” 

“ Hush 1 Fouche, I will tell him myself,” inter- 
rupted Josephine. “Sire, wdien your beautiful, 
exalted mother was still living in Versailles, I 
had the honor to be presented to her, both at the 
grand receptions and at the minor ones. One 
day — it was already in the unhappy Reign of 
Terror — when the queen had left Versailles and 
Trianon, and was already living in the Tuileries, 
I went thither to pay my respects.” 

“ That is to say, madame,” cried Louis, “ you 


294 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


were a brave and loyal woman, for only the brave 
and the loyal ventured then to go to the Tuileries. 
Oh, speak on ! speak on ! You wanted to pay 
your respects to the queen, you were saying ; she 
received you, did she not ? You were taken into 
the little saffron saloon ? ” 

“ No, sire, the queen was not there, she was in 
the little music-hall; and, because at that time 
etiquette was no longer rigidly enforced, I was 
allowed to accompany the Marchioness de Tourzel 
into the music-room. The queen did not notice 
our entrance, for she was singing. I remained 
standing at the door, and contemplated the won- 
drous picture that I saw there. The queen, in a 
simple white dress, her light brown, slightly pow- 
dered hair concealed by a black lace head-dress, 
sat at the spinet on which her white hands rested. 
Near her in the window-niche sat madame, engaged 
with her embroidery. Yery near her sat, in a 
httle arm-chair, a boy of five years, a lovely child, 
with long golden locks, with large blue eyes, and 
looking like an angel. The httle hands, sur- 
rounded by* lace wristbands, leaned on the sup- 
port of the chair, while his looks rested inces- 
santly upon the countenance of the queen, and 
his whole child’s soul was absorbed in the gaze 
which he directed to his mother. The queen was 
singing, and the tones of her soulful voice re- 
sound still in my heart. The song was this ; 

‘Dors, mon enfant, clos ta panpiere, 

Tes cris me dechirent le coeur; 

Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere 
A bien asscz de sa doulenr.’ 

And while she sang she turned her head toward 
her son, who listened to her motionless and as if 
enchanted. ‘ See,’ cried madame, the sister of the 
pretty boy, ‘I believe Louis Charles has fallen 
asleep.’ The child started up, and a glowing red- 
ness suffused his cheeks. ‘Oh! Theresa,’ he 
cried, ‘ how could any one go to sleep when my 
mamma queen was singing ? ’ His mother stooped 
down to him, pressed a long kiss upon his brow, 
and a tear fell from her eyes upon his golden 
hair. I saw it, and involuntarily my eyes filled ; 
I could not hold back my tears, and went softly 
out to compose myself. Sire, I see you still be- 


fore me — this beautiful queen and her children— 
and it is with me to-day as then, I must weep.” 

“ And I ! — oh, my God ! — and 1 1 ” whispered 
Louis, putting both his hands before his quiver- 
ing face. Even Touch e seemed moved, his lips 
trembled and his cheeks grew pale. 

A long pause ensued. Nothing was heard but 
the convulsive sobbing of the, young man, who 
still held his hands before his face, and wept so 
violently that the tears poured down in heavy 
drops between his fingers. 

“ Sire,” cried Josephine, with supplicatory 
voice — “ sire, by the recollection of that hour, I 
conjure you, forgive me that I now live in those 
rooms which Marie Antoinette once inhabited. 
Ah ! it has not been my wish, and I have done it 
only with pain and grief. Believe me, sire, and 
forgive me that I have been compelled to live in 
the palace of the kings.” 

He took his hands from his face, and gazed at 
her. “ You live in the Tuileries ? Who are you ? 
Madame, who are you ? ” 

“ Sire, I was formerly Viscountess Beauharnais ; 
now I am — ” 

“ The wife of the First Consul ! ” exclaimed the 
prince, drawing back in terror — “ the wife of him 
who is pursuing me, and who, as Touche says, 
means to bring me to the scaffold.” 

“Oh, sire, forgive him!” implored Josephine; 
“ he is not wicked, he is not cruel ; but circum- 
stances compel him to act as he does. God Him- 
self, it would seem, has chosen him to restore, 
with his heroic sword and his heroic spirit, peace 
and prosperity to this unfortunate land, bleeding 
from a thousand wounds. He was the savior of 
France, and the grateful nation hailed him with 
paBans, and full of confidence laid the reins of 
government in his hands. Through his victories 
and his administration of affairs, France has again 
grown strong and great and happy ; and yet he is 
daily threatened by assassins, yet there are con- 
tinual conspiracies whose aim is to murder the 
man to whom France is indebted for its new 
birth. What wonder that he at last, to put an 
end to these conspiracies, and these attempts 
upon his life, will, by a deed of horror, inspire 


JOSEPHINE. 


295 


the conspirators with fear ? He is firmly re- 
solved on this. The lion has been aroused from 
his calmness by new conspiracies, and the shak- 
ing of his mane will this time annihilate all who 
venture to conspire against him. Sire, I do not 
accuse you ; I do not say that you do wrongly to 
make every attempt to regain the inheritance of 
your fathers. May God judge between you and 
your enemies ! But your enemies have the power 
in their hands, and you must yield to that power. 
Oh, my dear, unfortunate, pitiable lord, I conjure 
you, save yourself from the anger of the First 
Consul, and from the pursuers who have been 
sent out to seek you. If you are found, you are 
lost, and no one in the world will then be able to 
sa7e you. Fly, therefore — fly, while there is still 
tine! ” 

“ Fly ! ” cried the young prince, bitterly, “ ever- 
more fly ! My whole life is a perpetual flight, a 
continuous concealment. Like the Wandering 
Jew, I must journey from land to land — nowhere 
can I rest, nowhere find peace. Without a home, 
without parents, without a name, I wander around, 
and, like a hunted wild beast, I must continually 
start afresh, for the hounds are close behind me. 
Well, be it so, then ; I am weary of defying my 
fatq longer ; I surrender myself to what is inevita- 
ble. The First Consul may “send me as a conspir- 
ator to the scaffold. I am prepared to die. I 
shall find that peace in death at least that life so 
cruelly denies me. I will not fly — I will remain. 
The example of my parents will teach me how to 
die.” 

“Oh, speak not so!” exclaimed Josephine. 
“Have pity on me, have pity on yourself. You 
are still so young, life has so much for you yet, 
there remains so much to you yet to hope for. 
You must live, not to avenge the death of your 
illustrious parents, but to make its memory less 
poignant. Son of kings, you have received life 
from God, and from your parents, you may not 
lightly throw it away, but must defend it, for the 
blessing of your mother rests upon your head, 
which you must save from the scaffold.” 

“ You must live,” said Fouche, “ for your death 
would bring joy to those who were the bitter ene- 


mies of Queen Marie Antoinette, and who would 
be your mocking heirs. Will you grant to the 
Count de Lille the uncontested right of calling 
himself Louis XYIII. ? — the Count de Lille, who 
caused Marie Antoinette to shed so many tears.” 

The prince flamed up at this, and his eyes 
flashed. 

“No,” he cried, “the Count de Lille shall not 
have this joy. He shall not rest his curse-laden 
head upon the pillow with the calm consciousness 
that he will be the king of the future. My vision 
shall disturb his sleep, and the possibility that I 
shall return and demand my own again, shall be 
the terror that shall keep peace far from him. 
You are right, madame, I must live. The spirit 
of Marie Antoinette hovers over me, and demands 
that I live, and by my life avenge her of her most 
bitter enemy. Let it be so, then. Tell me, 
Fouche, whither shall I go? Where shall the 
poor criminal hide himself, whose only offence 
lies in this, that he is alive, and that he is the son 
of his father ? Where is there a cave in which 
the poor hunted game can bide himself from the 
hounds ? ” 

“ Sire, you must away, away into foreign lands. 
The arm of tlie First Consul is powerful, and his 
eagle eye scans all Europe, and would discover 
you at any point.” 

“ You must for the present find a home beyond 
the sea,” said Fouche, approaching nearer. “ I 
have already taken measures which will allow you 
to do so. There are ships sailing southward from 
Marseilles every day, and in one of these you must 
go to America. America is the land of freedom, 
of adventures, and of great deeds. You will there 
find sufficient occupation for your spirit and for 
your love of work.” 

“ It is true,” said Louis, with a bitter smile ; 
“ I will go to America. I will find a refuge with 
the savages. Perhaps they will appoint me as 
their chieftam, and adorn my head with a crown 
of feathers instead of the crown of gold. Yes, 
I will go to America. In the primeval forests, 
with the children of nature, there will be a home 
for the exile, the homeless one. Madame, I thank 
you for your sympathy and your goodness, and 


296 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


my thanks shall consist in this, that I subject 
myself wholly to your will. You loved Queen 
Marie Antoinette. A blessing on you, and all 
who love you.’* 

He extended both his hands to Josephine, and, 
as she was about to press them to her lips, he 
stooped toward her with a sad smile. 

“ Madame, bless my poor brow with the touch 
of those lips which once kissed the hand of my 
mother.” 

Josephine did as she was asked, and a tear 
fell from her eyes upon his fair hair. 

Go, sire,” she said, “ and may God bless and 
protect you ! If you ever need my help, call upon 
me, and be sure that I will never neglect your 
voice.” 

An hour later the wife of the First Consul drove 
out to St. Cloud. At the comer of the Rue St. 
Honore a second carriage joined her own, and a 
young man who sat in it greeted Josephine defer- 
entially as she leaned far out of the carriage to 
return his salute. 

At the barriers the carriage stopped, for the 
gates of the city were still closed. But Josephine 
beckoned the ofScer of the guard to her carriage, 
and, fortunately, he knew the wife of the First 
Consul. 

“ It is not necessary,” said Josephine, with a 
charming smile, “it is not necessary that I should 
procure a permit from the First Consul to allow 
myself and my escort to pass the gate ? You do 
not suppose that I and my secretary, who sits in 
the next carriage, belong to the villains who 
threaten the life of my husband ? ” 

The officer, enchanted with the grace of Jose- 
phine, bowed low, and commanded the guard in- 
stantly to open the gate and allow the two car- 
riages to pass. ^ 

And so the son of the queen was saved. For 
the second time he left Paris, to go forth as an 
exile and an adventurer to meet his fate. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AFTER LONG VTANDERINGS. 

For the city of Paris the 16th of Febmary, 
1804, was a day of terror. The gates remained 
closed the whole day, military patrols passed 
through the streets, at whose corners the procla- 
mations were posted, by which Murat, the gov- 
ernor of Paris, announced to the city that fifty 
assassins were within the walls, intent on taking 
the life of the First Consul. 

The condemned surgeon, Querolle, had, mean- 
time, made his confession, and named the heads 
of the conspiracy and their accomplices, and, only 
after all the persons mentioned by him were ar- 
rested, were the gates of the city opened. 

A great trial then commenced of the men who 
had been sent by the Bourbons for this nefarious 
purpose. Among the accused were General 
Pichegru, the abettor of Georges, and General 
Moreau, the most prominent of all. 

The history of this trial was enveloped in ob- 
scurity, and it was faintly whispered that Piche- 
gru had taken his own life in prison, and more 
faintly yet was it rumored that he was secretly 
dispatched in prison. And then, on one of these 
days, there were to be seen through all Paris 
only pale, sad faces, and a murmur of horror 
ran through all the streets and all the houses. 

The story was current that the Duke d’Eng- 
hien, the grandson of the Prince de Conde, had 
been arrested by French soldiers at Baden, beyond 
the frontiers, and had been brought to Vincennes ; 
that he was accused there that same night of be- 
ing an accomplice in a plot to take the life of the 
First Consul, and to disturb the peace of the re- 
public ; that he was quickly condemned by a 
court-martial, and shot before morning within the 
fortress of Vincennes. 

The report was only too true. Bonaparte had 
kept his word ; he had sacrificed a royal victim 
to the threatened cause of the republic ; he would, 
by one deed of horror, fill the conspirators with 
fear, and cause them to abandon their bloody plans. 

The means employed were cruel, but the end 
was reached which Bonaparte hoped to attain. 


AFTER LONG WANDERINGS. 


291 


and theubt^tonK ihei-e vvere no more conspiracies 
against the life of the First Consul, who, on the 
18th of May, that same year, declared himself 
emperor. 

A few days after this, the public trial of the 
accused began, which Fouche attended as the 
reinstalled minister of police, and over which 
Regnier presided in his new capacity of chief 
judge. 

Seventeen of those indicted were condemned 
to death, others to years of imprisonment, and 
among these was General Moreau. But the pop- 
ular voice declared itself so loudly and energeti- 
cally for the brave general of the republic, that it 
was considered expedient to heed it. Moreau 
was released from prison, and went to the Spanish 
frontier, whence he sailed to North America. 

On the 25th of June, twelve of the conspira- 
tors, Georges at their head, were executed ; the 
other five, who had been condemned to death, 
had their sentence commuted to banishment. 

The gentle, kind-hearted Josephine viewed all 
these things with sadness, for her power over the 
heart of her husband was waning, and the sun of 
her glory had set. Her prayers and tears had no 
longer a prevailing influence over Bonaparte, and 
she had not been able to avert the death of the 
Duke d’Enghien. 

“ I have tried all means,” she said, with tears, 
to Bourricnne, the chief secretary of the emperor ; 
“ I wanted at any cost to turn him aside from bis 
dreadful intention. He had not apprised me of 
it, but you know in what way I learned it. At 
my request he confessed to me his purpose, but 
he was steeled against my prayers. I clung to 
him, I fell on my knees before him. ‘Do not 
meddle with what is none of your business ! ’ he 
cried, angrily, as he pushed me away from him. 
‘ These are not women’s affairs — leave me in 
peace.’ And so I had to let the worst come, and 
could do nothing to hinder it. But afterward, 
when all was over, Bonaparte was deeply affected, 
and for several days he remained sad and silent, 
and scolded me no more when he found me in 
tears.” * 


The days passed by, the days of splendor, and 
then followed for Josephine the days of misery 
and grief. Repelled by Napoleon, she mourned 
four years over her spurned love and her ruined 
fortunes ; but then, when Napoleon’s star went 
down, when he was robbed of bis imperial crown 
and compelled to leave France, Joseph^e’s heart 
broke, and she hid herself in her grave, in order 
not to witness Napoleon’s humiliation. 

And thus the empire was abolished, and the 
Count de Lille called back by foreign potentates, 
and not by the French nation, in order, as Louis 
XVITI., to reerect the throne of the Lilies. 

And where, all this time, was the son of Queen 
Marie Antoinette ? Where was Louis XYH. ? 

He had kept his word which he gave to Jose- 
phine. He had gone to the primeval forests and 
to the savages, and they had given him a crown 
of feathers and made him their king.* For years 
he lived among them, honored as their king, loved 
as their hero. Then a longing for his country 
seized him, and going to Brazil in the service of 
his people, he made use of the opportunity to 
enter into a contract with Don Juan, and not re- 
turn to his copper-colored tribe. The precious 
treasure which he possessed, his papers, he had 
been able to preserve during all the journeys and 
amid all the perils of his life, and these papers 
procured him a hospitable and honorable recep- 
tion with Don Juan. From him the king without 
name or inheritance learned the changes that had 
meanwhile taken place in France, and, at the first 
opportunity which offered, he returned to Europe, 
arriving at Paris in the middle of the year 1816. 

The Prince de Conde, now the Duke de Bour- 
bon, received the wanderer with tenderness, but 
with deep regret, for now it was too late, and his 
hope for a restoration of the returning prince 
could rest on no basis. The Count de Provence 
was now King Louis XVIIL, and never would he 
descend from his throne to give back to the son 
of Marie Antoinette that crown which he wore 
with so much satisfaction and pride. 

Much more simple and easy was it to treat the 
pretender as a lunatic or as an adventurer, and 


* Bourrienne, “ Memoires du Consulat et de I’Empire.” 


* “Memoires du Due de Normandie,” pp. 89-162. 


298 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


to set his claims aside forever. Useless were all 
the letters which the Baron de Richemont, the 
name that Louis still bore, addressed to his uncle 
the king, to his sister the Duchess de Angoul^me, 
imploring them for an interview. No answer was 
received. No audience was granted to this ad- 
venturer, whose claims could not be recognized 
without dethroning Louis XVIII., and destroying 
the prospects of the crown for the duchess’s son, 
the Duke de Berri. Louis XVII. had died and 
he could not return to the Jiving. He saw it, he 
knew it, and a deep sorrow took possession of 
him. But he rose above it — he would not die ; he 
would live, a terror and an avenger to his cruel 
relatives. 

But it was a restless life that the son of the 
queen must lead, in order to protect himself from 
the daggers of his powerful enemies. The Prince 
de Coude conjured him to secure himself against 
the attacks which were made more than once 
upon the Baron de Richemont, and Louis gave 
heed to his requests and tears. He travelled 
abroad ; but after returning in two years from 
a journey in Asia and Africa, on landing on the 
Italian coast, he was arrested in 1818, at the in- 
stigation of the Austrian ambassador at Mantua, 
and confined in the prison of Milan. 

Seven years the .unhappy prince spent in the 
Austrian prison, without once being summoned 
before a judge — seven years of solitude, of dark- 
ness, and of want. But the son of Marie Antoi- 
nette had learned in his youth to bear these 
things, and his prison-life in Milan was not so 
cruel as that in the Temple under Simon. Here 
there were at least sympathizing souls who pitied 
him ; even the turnkeys of the prison were cour- 
teous and kind when they entered the cell of the 
“ King of France ; ” and one day, beyond the wall 
of his apartment, was heard a voice singing, in 
gentle, melodious tones, a romanza which Louis 
had composed, and written on the wall when he 
occupied the neighboring cell. 

This voice, which sounded like a greeting from 
the world, was that of Silvio Pellico. The cele- 
brated author of “ Le Mie Prigioni,” relates in 
touching words this salutation of his neighbor: 


“ My bed was carried,” he said, “ into thfe ^rw 
cell that was prepared for me, and as soon as the 
inspectors had left me alone, my first care was to 
examine the walls. There were to be seen there 
some words, recollections of the past, written 
with chalk, with pencil, or with a sharp tool. I 
found there also two pretty French lines, which I 
am sorry I did not copy. I began to sing them 
to my melody of ‘The Poor Magdalen,’ when 
a voice near me responded with another air. 
When the singer ended, I called out, ‘ Bravo ! ’ He 
replied with a polite salutation, and asked me if 
I was French. 

“ ‘ No, I am Italian, and am called Silvio Pel- 
lico.’ 

‘“The author of Francesca da Rimini ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, the same.’ 

“ And now there followed a courtly compliment, 
with the usual regrets for my imprisonment. He 
asked in what part of Italy I was born, and when 
I told him in Saluzzo, in Piedmont, he awarded 
the Piedmontese some words of high praise, and 
spoke particularly of Bodoni (a celebrated printer, 
director of ther national printing establishment at 
Parma). His compliments were brief and dis- 
criminating, and disclosed a finely cultivated 
mind. 

“ ‘ And now, sir,’ said I, ‘ allow me to ask you 
who you are.’ 

“ ‘ You were just singing a song that I wrote.’ 

“ ‘ These pretty verses here upon the wall, are 
they yours ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, they are.” 

“‘You are therefore — ’ 

“ ‘ The Duke de Normandie.’ 

“ The watchman was just then walking past my 
window and so I was still. After some time we 
resumed our conversation. When I asked whether 
he was Louis XYIL, he responded in the affirma- 
tive, and began to declaim hotly against Louis 
XVIII. his uncle, the usurper of his rights. 

“ I implored him to give me his history in brief 
outlines. He did so, and related to me all the 
details connected with the life of Louis XYIL, 
which I knew only in part. He told me how he 
had been imprisoned with Simon the cobbler. 


AFTER LONG WANDERINGS. 


299 


been compelled to sign a calumniating charge 
against his mother, etc. He then related to 
me the story of his escape and his flight to 
America, of his return to reclaim the throne of 
his fathers, and his arrest in Mantua. 

“ He portrayed his history with extraordinary 
life. All the incidents of the French Revolution 
were present before him ; he spoke with natural 
eloquence, and wove in piquant anecdotes very 
apropos. His manner of expression smacked 
once in a while of the soldier, but there was no 
lack of the elegance that disclosed his intercourse 
with good society. 

“ ‘ Will you allow me,’ I asked him,‘ to treat you 
as a friend and leave off all titles ? ’ 

‘“I want exactly that,’ he answered. ‘ Misfor- 
tune has taught me the good lesson to despise all 
the vanities of earth. Believe me, my pride does 
not lie in this, that I am a king, but that I am a 
man.’ 

“ After this we had long conversations mornings 
and evenings, and I recognized in him a noble, 
beautiful soul, sensitive to all that is good. He 
knew how to win hearts, and even the turnkeys 
were kind to him. One of them said to me on 
coming from the cell of my neighbor : ‘ I have 
strong hopes that he will make me chief porter 
when he is king ; I have had the boldness to 
ask him for the position, and he has promised it.’ 

“ To the veneration of the turnkeys for the king 
of the future I owe it that one day when I was 
led to trial, and had to pass by his cell, they 
opened the doors that I might see my illustrious 
friend. He was of medium size, from forty to 
forty-five years of age, somewhat embonpoint^ and 
had a thoroughly Bourbon physiognomy.” * 

After seven years of imprisonment, the gates 
opened at last for the Baron de Richemont ; and 
he who had been placed there without the sen- 
tence of a judge, was released with as little show 
of authority. The son of the queen was free 

* Silvio Pellico, “Le Mie Prigioni,” p. 51 et seq. An 
examination of Silvio Pellico’s work will convince the 
reader that Silvio Pellico was by no means a believer in 
the genuineness of his companion’s claims. Miss Miihl- 
bach seems to have been scarcely just in leaving the im- 
pression conveyed in the text. — T e. 


again ; the death of King Louis XYIII. had re- 
stored him to the walks of men. But another 
King of France assumed his place at once ; the 
Count d’ Artois ascended the throne under the title 
of Charles X. 

The poor Baron de Richemont bore his sorrows 
and his humiliation into the valleys of Switzer* 
land. But when, in the year 1830, King Charles 
X. abdicated the throne, the son of Marie Antoi- 
nette again came forth from his solitude, issued 
a proclamation to the French people, and, in 
the presence of all Europe, demanded his inherit- 
ance. 

Yet, amid the clash of weapons and the roar 
of revolutions, the voice of the unfortunate prince 
was overborne. He had no soldiers, no cannon, 
to enforce silence and make himself be heard. 
But the Duke d’Orleans, Louis Philippe, had sol- 
diers and cannon ; and the arms of his depend- 
ants, and the magic of his wealth, placed him 
upon the throne in July, 1830.* 

The poor Baron de Richemont, the son of kings, 
the last of the Bourbons in France, had now a sin- 
gle friend, who, perhaps, would receive him. This 
friend was the Duke de Bourbou-Conde, now an 
old man of eighty years. One day, some weeks 
after the accession of Louis Philippe, the Duke de 
Bourbon received at his palace of St. Leu a gen- 
tleman whom nobody knew, who announced him- 
self as the Baron de Richemont. 

The duke went out into the anteroom, greeted 
his guest with the greatest deference, and led him 
into his cabinet. There the two gentlemen car- 
ried on a long and earnest conversation, and the 
secretary of the duke, who was at work in the 
library hard by, distinctly heard his master say, 
with trembling tones : “ Sire, I implore you, for- 
give me. The circumstances were stronger than 
my wdll. Sire, go not into judgment with me — 
forgive me.” 

To this an angry voice replied : “ No, I will not 
forgive you, for you have dealt perfidiously with 
the son, as you did once with the mother ! You 
have not redeemed the oath that you once gave 
me. I leave you. May God be gracious to you. 


* It was the 9th of August— T b. 


300 


MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON. 


and pardon you. Take care that He does not 
punish you for the treachery that you have shown 
to me. You swore that you would acknowledge 
no other king but me, and yet you have taken 
your oath to the third king. Farewell ! May the 
Almighty protect you ! We shall see each other, 
perhaps, in a better world, and there you will 
have to give your account to a Judge whom 
nothing can mitigate. Be happy, and may the 
dead sleep in peace ! ” * 

The secretary then heard the forcible closing 
of a door, and all became still. After an hour he 
entered the duke’s cabinet, because the silence 
troubled him. The old duke sat in his arm-chair, 
pale, and gazing with constant looks at the door 
through which the stranger had departed. He 
was reticent the whole day, and in the night fol- 
lowing his valet heard him softly praying and 
weeping. On the next morning, August 2'7th, 
1830, on entering the sleeping-room of his mas- 
ter, he found him dead and already rigid. The 
duke had hanged himself at the window of his 
own room. 

The last dependant of the unhappy king, who 
still bore the name of the pretender, was dead, as 
were all his relations, including his sister, the 
Duchess d’Angoul^me. But from the dead there 
came a greeting. She had ordered a large sum to 
be paid yearly to the Baron de Richemont, and 
the report was that she had wished to recognize 
him on her death-bed as her brother. But her 
confessor had counselled her that such a recogni- 
tion would introduce new contentions among the 
Bourbons, and give the pretender Henry Y. equal 
claims with Louis XYII. 

Yet the Duke de Normandie was not silent ; he 
spoke so loudly of his rights that Louis Philippe 
at last held it advisable to arrest him and bring 
him to trial. The preliminary investigation con- 
tinued fifteen months ; then he was brought be- 
fore the court, and accused of conspiracy against 
the safety of the state. 

The Gazette des Trihunaux of the 3d, 4th, and 
5th of November, 1834, gave the details of this 

♦ The very words of Eichemont. — See “ Memoires du 
Due de Normandie,” p. 243. 


trial. Spectators poured in from all sides, and 
also, in an unexpected manner, witnesses who de- 
clared themselves ready to prove the identity of 
the Baron de Richemont with the Duke de Nor- 
mandie, son of Louis XYI. The accused appeared 
entirely calm and dignified before the bar, and 
when the counsel for the government accused him 
of appropriating a name that did not belong to 
him, he asked qhietly, “ Gentlemen, if I am not 
Louis XYII., will you tell me who I am ? ” 

No one knew how to reply to this question ; 
but many eminent legitimists had come to sol- 
emnly declare that the accused was in truth their 
king, and that he was the rescued orphan of the 
Temple. 

Even the president of the court seemed to be 
convinced of this, and his closing words in ad- 
dressing the jury were these : “ Gentlemen, who 
is the accused who stands before you to-day ? 
What is his name, his lineage, his family ? What 
are his antecedents, his whole history ? Is he an 
instrument of the enemies of France, or is he, 
much more, an unfortunate who has miraculously 
escaped the horrors of a bloody revolution, and, 
laid under bans by his birth, has now no name 
and no refuge for his head ? ” 

The jury, however, were not called upon to 
answer this question ; they had simply to reply 
to the question whether the accused was guilty 
of a conspiracy against the state. This they an- 
swered with a “ Guilty,” and condemned the ac- 
cused to an imprisonment of twelve years. 

The Duke de Normandie, or King Louis Charles, 
as we may choose to call him, was taken to St. 
Pelagie ; but during the next year, through the 
assistance of powerful friends, which his trial 
had gained over to him, he was released from 
prison, and again spent some quiet years in 
Switzerland. 

Then came the year 1848, the year of revolu- 
tions, whose storm-waves drove Louis Philippe 
to England, never to ascend again the throne of 
France. 

Again Louis Charles issued from his solitude, 
and this time not alone. A swarm of rich and 
powerful legitimists thronged around him, a jour- 


AFTER LONG WANDERINGS. 


301 


nal — Vlnjlexihle — was secured to fhe interests 
of the Duke de Normandie, and La Vendee, 
with a thousand loyal voices, summoned King 
Louis XVII. to herself. There, as he was on 
the point of hastening to his faithful ones, God 
laid his hand upon him and held him back ; 
a stroke of paralysis crippled his limbs. After re- 
covering from this attack, the strength of his 
mind was taken away, and the decided, fiery, in- 
defatigable pretender became a gentle, pious 
monk, who fasted and prayed, and wandered to 
Rome to have an interview with Pope Pius IX., 
and received absolution from him for all his sins. 

The pope met the Duke de Normandie at Gaeta 
on the 20th of February, 1849, and had a long and 
secret conversation with him ; and, when Louis 
Charles withdrew, it was as a quiet, pious, smil- 
ing man, who never denied his high extraction, 
but who had no longer a wish to be restored to 
the inheritance of his fathers. More and more 
he withdrew from the world, and lived only in the 
circle of a few noble-born legitimists, who never 
addressed him excepting as “sire.” He accepted 
the title as one that was his due, and never re- 
fused it even when approached by many adherents 
of the new Napoleonic dynasty. At that time he 
wrote to his friends : 

“ You ask me what I wish, what the end of my 
struggle is, which has now lasted more than a half 
century ? I will tell you. You do not suppose, 
I trust, that I am still determined to ascend the 
throne of France : to do this would be a great 


misfortune for me, but it would certainly be a 
greater one for France, and it would rightly be 
said of both of us that we merit our misfortune; 
still less do I hope to attain to wealth and high 
station by being recognized. You know that I 
need very little for my support, and that this 
little is amply provided for. What else should I 
strive for? To avenge myself? My friend, I am 
at an age when the blood flows slower through 
the veins, and when one finds an inexpressible 
charm in forgiving. What, then, do I wish ? What 
could I have ? Why do I incessantly strive ? 
This is the reason, my friend : I should like, be- 
fore my death, to convince all who have disinter- 
estedly believed in me, that it is not a political 
adventurer, but the royal ‘ orphan of the Temple,’ 
who owes them his friendship, and gives them 
his gratitude.” 

And this last goal of his life was within his 
reach. The friends and legitimists who sur- 
rounded him believed in him, and when he died 
his dependants and servants mourned for him as 
for a departed king. They bore him with solemn 
pomp to his grave, at the dead of night. Some 
fifty persons followed his coffin, and a priest went 
before it. He was buried in the churchyard of 
Villefranche, and his tombstone bears the follow- 
ing inscription: 

HERE RESTS 

LOUIS CHARLES, OP FRANCE, 
Bom at Versailles, March 27, 1785. 

Died in the Chateau of Vaux-Renaud, August 10, 1858. 


THE END. 



D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 


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HISTORICAL HOVELS. 


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TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN, 

Bt ADELAIDE De V. CHAUDROlSr. 

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“ The series of Historical Hovels by Miss Muhlbach are winning for their 
author a high distinction among a class of writers, of which Sir Walter Scott 
has stood at the head. The events of history which are interwoven in the 
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Miss Miihlbach’s novels have risen into favor very rapidly, and this fact 
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Author of ‘^Joseph II. and His Court/^ ‘‘Frederick the Great 
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TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY 

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From the German, by Eev. H. IST. PIERCE, T>. D, 

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From the Providence Herald. 

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as it does with entire historical fidelity of the most critical period of English history, 
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of the invasion of Germany by Napoleon. It gives us the German side of the war, 
showing how deeply they felt the humiliation which Napoleon’s victories compelled 
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From the Chicago Christian Times, 

“ Miss Muhlbach has not merely romanced ; she adheres rigidly to her text, gained 
from a great variety of sources, state records, native and foreign historians. The 
climax of her most brilliant scenes is a fact which she refers to its recorder ; the 
startling prophecy, the pungent witticism, she takes w’ord for word from its author.” 

From the Worcester Spy. 

“ Louisa Muhlbach must have carefully and diligently studied the secret histo- 
ries of the times and countries of which she writes, and her task is done well and 
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mances, and fully deserve praise and popularity.” 

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mances so widely popular. This volume illustrates Russian history in the time of 
the great Catharine, and with equal success as that which has attended her in her 
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From the Memphis Appeal, 

“ It possesses the same charm of narration and startling episode which character- 
ize all the works of Miss Muhlbach, and will be eagerly sought after by every one 
wlio has read her preceding works. 


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